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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

Note

from the dialogue prompts! 6: “go away” “no, not until i know you’re okay”

Oh boy this one was hard to write for whatever reason, but she’s done! just in time for us to pretend a world in which Jon or Martin’s lives are ever in real danger doesn't exist....right?

AO3 Link in source on OP

On Being Fine, Absolutely Well-Adjusted, and OK

Martin supposed he should count himself lucky. He hadn’t needed to go to the hospital after the Prentiss attack, had come out with only a few worm scars to show for it, god especially when he thought about Jon and all the worms he and Sasha had had to corkscrew out of him, his face and neck and arms and legs—

See? Martin shook his head, clearing his mind’s eye of the silver and crimson kaleidoscope. It could have been worse. He scratched at his calf, where a close trio of scars had begun to heal, skin-tight and shiny, and, at last, remembered he was supposed to be washing his hands. He was glad the unisex Archive lav didn’t have a mirror by the sink; he didn’t need a reminder of how tired he must look.

The return to work had been difficult, but not as bad as he had expected it to be. Knowing Prentiss was dead had made it easier to return home, though he had immediately spent his first pain-free day rearranging the furniture, as recommended by his therapist. (He had lied to her, of course, claimed an attempted break-in + assault had traumatized him. It wasn’t that far off from the truth, anyways.) So Martin had been spending his evenings repositioning, redecorating, cleaning; anything he could to erase Jane Prentiss and those horrid things from his mind. It wasn’t easy, and Martin still spent nights awake, hyperaware of the smallest sound of squelching or the smell of rot. But he was alive, he reminded himself at home in the mornings, concealing eye bags and trying to reassemble his appearance into some approximation of normal, and shouldn’t that be enough? He hadn’t been seriously injured, like Jon or Tim, hadn’t had to risk a lonely end save them all like Sasha. He should be the most well-adjusted of the three of them.

So why was he here, in the Archive toilet, gripping the edge of the sink so hard he might crack it?

Martin released his grip and watched his blood flow back into his fingers, flexing them. He should really go do...something. Work, probably, if Jon ever decided to stop speaking to him like he was a jigsaw with too many pieces. He splashed some water on his face and exhaled deeply. He was fine, he could-

“Oh shit!” Martin yelped as he turned to face the door into the bullpen. In the reflection at the corner of the mirror that hung on the back of the door was a shiny, squat, silver worm. “Fuckfuckfuck!” Martin cursed, backing into the door and pulling his shoe off with one hand. He patted for his beltloop, where had taken to keeping his corkscrew, and huffed to find it gone. Of course. He was trying not to be paranoid.

Picking up his shoe, he threw it at the worm, half-hidden by the rubbish bin. It bounced harmlessly—or, maybe it hit? Martin couldn’t tell. Either way, the worm moved, and that was when Martin’s vision greyed dangerously, heart leaping to his throat. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe? Why couldn’t he breathe? Was it the carbon dioxide? No. The fire alarm wasn’t going off. Martin’s thoughts raced and he desperately jiggled the door handle, only to find it turning against him. Oh god, it was her. It was-

“Martin?”

It was Jon.

“Jon? Jon, fuck, hey, don’t come in, okay? There’s a worm and I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

…is what he would have said if he could catch his breath. Instead, all he could let out was a raspy, strangled “Jon.”

“Martin, are you alright in there?” Jon’s voice was too calm, too casual for the bile rising in Martin’s throat.

“W-worm.” Martin sputtered as he heard a click of a cane through the door; probably Jon taking a step backward at the word. “Got-gotta kill it,” he babbled, more to himself than to Jon. He could try with the shoe again, but it hadn’t worked the first time, and that would leave him unprotected if he wanted to step on it.

“No! Martin, don’t-”

Oh, he could step on it. Seized in a moment of something, a peculiar blend of bravery, fear, and plain exasperation, Martin crossed the few squares of lino between him and the worm and moved to step on it with precision. To his great surprise, it rolled out from under his foot, glinting against the overhead lighting.

“What?” Martin mumbled aloud, and the realization hit him all at once: this wasn’t a worm at all. Cautiously, he picked up the metal tube and spotted a small label on the bottom. The thin silver tube contained MAC #239: Not Like Other Girls, according to the reddish-brown sticker.

“Lipstick?” Martin whispered to himself, slumping against the wall of the bathroom and letting out a relieved sob. He had been terrified of lipstick?

The realization that should have calmed him down instead sent him spiraling. Martin Blackwood wasn’t always the calm one, but he was always the shoulder to lean on. He couldn’t do this, not have a breakdown in the middle of his workplace, not with—

Tapping came from the door outside. “Martin? Do I need to break the door down?” Jon was still outside, Martin realized with a start.

“Uh-” Martin choked back a sob. “No, no, it’s alright, Jon. I’m fine.”

“You certainly are not.”

“It was just a-a bloody lipstick tube, Jon, I’m alright. Just leave me alone.” Martin shuddered a breath as he swiped at his eyes with the hem of his sweater, praying to anything and everything that for once Jon would just do as he was told.

“No.” Of course not. “Not until I know you’re okay.” Jon’s voice was softer now, a part of Martin realized. The gentleness of his tone struck Martin and he found himself shakily standing and moving to the door. Unlocking and opening it, he saw Jon, leaning heavily on the medical cane he had been given after the incident, eyes a mix of panic and concern, like the way one might eye a wounded animal. Somehow, that look managed to make Martin feel small, protected, loved, and it warmed something in him.

It was that look that broke something in him and Martin felt a taut string inside him snap loose. Tears welled up in his eyes and he desperately swiped at them with the sleeves of his sweater, leaning against the doorframe. “I feel so stupid,” he mumbled, choked laughter mixing with his tears. He held up the lipstick tube, which he had pocketed earlier, and held it up to the light. “It doesn’t even look like them, not really, I-I-I just saw the squat and silver and panicked.”

Jon’s hand was on his arm, but he was quiet, not saying anything until Martin had collected himself, heaving sobs to hiccups to shallow breathing as he brought himself to baseline again. “Martin,” Jon said quietly, flexing the fingers that held his bicep, “I know you’ve had a rough few months.” Martin scoffed. “Fine, okay, maybe rough doesn’t begin to cover it. What I mean to say is, well…” Jon’s mouth floundered for a word properly, lips forming a few different shapes before settling on, “are you, you know, getting help?”

“Yes, Jon, I’m in therapy.” Martin surprised himself with his own honesty. “But there’s not really much I can say, you know? Not without getting carted off to a sanitorium or getting doped up on meds of some kind or another. I mean, evil worms haunting my house and my workplace? A worm woman determined to kill me and everyone I care for? Not exactly something cognitive behavior therapy will fix.”

Jon sighed in assent, nodding. “That’s fair, I suppose. I just-Martin.” The hand squeezed his elbow and Martin felt a jolt of electricity run through his skin. “You’re allowed to hurt, you know?” Martin’s eyes must have given away his thoughts because Jon continued, voice soft and gentle.

“We all suffered, Martin, but you were the one who was locked in your home, and then the basement where you work, for months on end. Just because you’re not-” he shifts to wave his cane idly, “-doesn’t mean you haven’t gone through hell alongside us.” Jon’s voice has taken on a hardness to it, an insistence Martin last remembered seeing when they were locked in Document Storage together, when Jon was so afraid of being forgotten. It made Martin shiver, not from fear but from something in the way Jon’s eyes bored into him. He was determined to make Martin believe him. Who was he to refuse The Archivist’s words?

So Martin listened, letting Jon’s insistence settle in his chest. He had suffered; he had lost months of his life to Jane Prentiss, he couldn’t sleep without a fear of worms crawling into his skin and mouth at night. He didn’t feel safe until he was in the Archives at his desk, the one that surveyed the whole room and had two fire extinguishers still tucked into the drawers. As Jon spoke, Martin let his muscles relax slowly, until he was leaned up against the alcove in which the door to the toilets stood, helpless under Jon’s gaze and yet feeling the strongest he had in weeks, if not months. Tears welled in his eyes and he heard Jon hesitantly break off.

“Ah-Martin? You-ah shit, I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice had lost the severity it had previously held and was back to its quiet insistence. “I’m sorry, you-you didn’t ask for a soapbox.”

“No, no,” Martin shook his head, raking his nails through his hair. “I...I think I needed to hear that.” He smiled; a shaky, fragile thing. He scratched the back of his calf awkwardly, trying not to dislodge Jon from where he was precariously balanced between the hand on his arm and the hand on the cane. “Thank you, Jon, really.”

Jon smiled and shifted his hand from Martin’s arm to his hand, squeezing gently before releasing it and sliding the lipstick tube from his hand before turning to the bullpen. “Anytime. C’mon, let’s see if this is Sasha’s or Tim’s. I think it’s more Tim’s color, hmm?”

#jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #fanfic to a tea #cw panic attack #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic

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that-sorcerer-aint-right · 4 years ago

Text

How they would React to getting Christmas Presents: Part 2

Raiden:

You give him his gift, white wrapping paper with a cadet Grey ribbon. The thunder god gives you a strange look as he takes the gift out of your hands, sparks jumping out of his arms at the excitement that he would have hid so well without it.

You tell him that it was for a holiday on Earth, a tradition your family participated in.

“A tradition in which you give your loved ones gifts? Interesting.”

He pulled open the wrapping paper, though had to stop because he forgot to untie the bow, flipping open the box lids to see what you had gotten him. His glowing eyes softened in genuine appreciation as he held your present in his hands.

“I will cherish this as long as I am alive. Thank you.”

Your heart swelled as he motioned you to follow him.

“I am not very attuned to Earthrealm’s customs though I am a protector of it. Tell me more about this holiday, so that I may return the favor.”

Fujin:

He had just finished making adjustments to the tree you both had put up, dusting his hands off of the fake snow and smiling at a job well done. He turned to see you behind him, holding something behind your back.

“I wonder what you could be trying to hide from me?”

Your mischievous grin broke through the straight face you were trying to keep as you pulled his gift from behind you, sky blue wrapping paper with navy blue ribbon, the material lined with silver thread.

He smiled brightly, taking the gift and looking over the hard work put into making it.

“It looks wonderful!” he says as he smoothes out a bit of paper that crinkled.

You urged him on to open it, however, he refused, responding with, “No opening gifts until Christmas Morning.”

You didn’t take him to be a stickler for the rules, but Fujin was like a kid in a candy store, taking in all of the culture of your holiday. You sighed happily as you watched the god of wind slide his new gift under the tree with the others.

This would be the best Christmas ever.

Scorpion:

You found Hanzo meditating in the fire garden. You were willing to wait for him to finish, not wanting to disrupt his session, but he had heard you coming. He would rather you not wait for so long and stood from his spot on the ground.

He turned to face you, the wind rustling through the trees, the warm breeze brushing against your face as you admired the man.

He noticed you were carrying something. He didn’t know what it was or why it was decorated so extravagantly, so he questioned it and you responded with a short and sweet explanation about your Earthrealm holiday.

“I do not partake in human customs, but I appreciate your generosity and will accept your gift.”

He admires the handy work put into the choice of colors, recognizing them as his own, yellow wrapping paper with black ribbon. Though beautiful, it was in the way of his prize, so he sliced through the paper with the edge of a short blade, flipping open the cardboard to see his gift.

He didn’t expect to feel anything while looking at it, expecting a normal apathy and instead got a rapid swell of emotion that led to his hands shaking slightly. He was so used to losing, that he never got to appreciate gaining. It was nice to finally have something positive happen rather than the war and the endless cycle of pain and suffering.

He smiled behind the mask he wore and bowed in thanks.

“This was… This was very kind of you. I do appreciate your generosity and will return the favor. I promise.”

Sub-zero:

“This is for me?” he held the gift, admiring it’s shiny, navy wrapping paper and it’s white and silver stripped ribbon. He wondered what could have possibly pushed you into getting a random gift like this.

You told him that it was a holiday back home and explained what it was. Consider him intrigued, yet amused.

“You have your children believing some man in red sneaks into their houses to bring them presents?”

You shrugged, telling him that you didn’t make it up and to just open it.

He shook his head, trying to forget the ridiculousness of the occasion and began to tug the ribbon.

After peeling back the paper and opening the box, he pulled out the gift. Kuai held it in his hands, feeling grateful.

A warm smile adorned his face as he sat the present back down into the box. You asked him what he thought and he replied by hugging you tightly to him,

“Thank you.” After pulling away he gave you a knowing look.

“Now I will have to find something special for you, but for now.”

He held out his hand and ice began to form, climbing high and spreading out into thin petals. The ice had turned into a rose, which he gave to you.

“Beautiful, like you.”

#Raiden #mk11 raiden #mortal kombat #mortal kombat raiden #fujin #mortal kombat fujin #scorpion #hanzo hisashi #subzero #sub zero #kuai liang #my writing #my writings

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timextoxhajima · 4 years ago

Audio

Playlist Feels: SHORT SERIES PART 1

Member: stripper LEE JUYEON

Genre: angst, smut, exes to lovers because why the fuck not lmao and it fits the song anyw

A/N: at the point of writing this I WAS TIRED AND SLIGHTLY DRUNK BUT LETS GO. also, NOT part of the GEN Z series, i have racer juyeon in stall for you in gen z ;) also i told V that i was never going to write a stripper au for jy until he goes shirtless or grinds on a prop like kim kai did in artificial love... but when i saw this video, i thought of nothing BUT kim jongin. their styles are pretty similar... not to mention kai had an undercut phase too... conclusion: dana is in a mess and she’s drunk

“i know it hurts to smile but you try to.”

what is a story?

a story has a start, an arc, an ending.

is it pages of cream colored sheets stacked atop one another, word after word after word printed in ink?

is it the lyrics that your neighbour sings in the shower because he associates the beauty of the lyrics with some heartbreak he’s been through, regardless of when he experienced it?

is it the way someone walks in the room and steals everybody’s attention with the sheer amount of confidence and intimidation he was radiating?

so, what is a story?

ups-and-downs. friendship. love. heartbreak. faults.

‘it was my fault, and it always will be.’

god wouldn’t have allowed you to forget that face even if you were dead, even if you had your skull cracked open and your brain was being eaten out in bits like Hannibal Lecter savouring the flesh of his victim.

it feels like a witch’s long, untamed nails were being dragged across your skin, and she was breathing down your ear, whispering secrets of potions and words to curses like they were part of a song.

he who is inked in your heart made of stone will never be removed.

blood that runs thick in the color of love forbids a stake foretold.

bones crumble to dust like fine sand in the wind,

for you will never forget that you have sinned.

the scars on your heart slowly tears apart like a wound that never healed, and every step he makes on the space makes you wish that he was stepping on your soul instead.

not because you were sexually frustrated, but because you deserved it.

“y/n, lighten up! we’re here to have fun, not watch your mopey ass sulk!”

“yeah, you’ve been so stressed lately, don’t you think it’s time to loosen up?”

“for the record,” the music starts to thump in your stomach and the lights dim into a dark shade of red. “i didn’t want to come to a strip club.”

blood has covered the light, for his soul cries over your misdoings.

“ugh, you’re such a party pooper,” she huffs, visibly frustrated when her forehead creases into lines under her makeup.

the memory of you aggressively avoiding being dragged to a strip club rings in your ears like a fire alarm. sometimes, you would’ve loved nothing more besides throw a chair when she acts like that; making it seem like you wanted to do something when you’ve clearly stated you didn’t.

unfortunately, you were used to her shitty little habit.

coercion sprints itself across your arm when she suddenly grabs it, violently shaking you when the music starts.

dread washes over you like wildfire when he starts to move, and he suddenly becomes one with the music.

the whiteness of his skin grabs you by the neck and sticks an ice-cold popsicle down your throat. you could still taste the sourness of the lemon flavoured one he would always give you, even though he liked it too.

the shiny, glittery, loose clothes hanging around his physical existence freezes your muscles the way medusa could turn people into stone. the hairs on your arms stand when you remember how small you looked in his clothes.

and his eyes. they hold a dagger at your heart, tip already sinking into the skin on your chest.

black, sticky, dense tears flood out every hole of your soul’s mouth.

it takes a massive amount of effort to keep every dollop of excruciatingly painful memories to yourself, for you would’ve thrown up your dinner if you didn’t invest that kind of effort.

in your head, you were a demon coated in tears and smudged ink.

stuck in time like a statue, your eyes were hollow and your voice was no longer.

red, the color of blood mixed with poison was spewing out every hole from your face, your knees hitting the ground where the a bed of thorns were laid out carelessly.

the same way you laid out the bed of roses for him, only to become his thorns.

the start of the story began when you first locked eyes with him first in the neighbourhood library near your school.

you never really liked studying in school, not when there were always noisy kids tossing a ball around or someone loudly crunching on chips next to you.

it doesn’t take long for you to notice that he’s been watching you, resulting in you warily turning around to look behind you to see if he was looking at someone else.

a soft chime in the hall pulls your attention to the old clock hanging above the entrance of the library, and an announcement rings through the PA system.

“dear visitors, the time now is 11pm. kindly exit the library and dispose of any litter you may have with you. we hope you’ve enjoyed your time here and we hope to see you soon.”

it was exactly because it was so late, that there was nobody left in the library.

carefully, you return your attention back to him, music still playing softly in your earpieces.

his eyes were glued to his books as he clears them off the table, and you remain seated, taking your time to pack your things as well.

you were hoping he doesn’t come over, so naturally, you panic when he does.

feigning the mindless scrolling on your phone doesn’t do much when he presses his palm flat on to the surface of the table, robbing you of an option to ignore him.

well, you could, but you recognise him.

how could anybody not recognise him?

his eyes meet yours and intimidation fills you like you were drowning, but he suddenly squats with the support of his hand gripping onto the edge of the table, eyes darting away.

a frown finds itself on your face and you watch cautiously when he stands up again, placing a pen and a candy wrapper on the table before you.

“planning on hiding in the bathroom and staying overnight?”

“i... uh-- no...”

“okay,” releasing the edge of the table, he grips the two straps over his shoulders by the sides of his chest and nods towards the exit. “time to go then.”

lee juyeon had always been a rather mysterious character in school. he was two years your senior but it wasn’t surprising to know that he was friends with three of your classmates, one of them being your closest friends.

when he wasn’t smiling, he looked like he could kill someone; drive a knife through their faces and not feel a pinch of guilt.

but when he does, it’s like setting off a billion firecrackers at once.

and by firecrackers, you mean the girls in school swooning over him.

if you had to choose a word to describe the way you looked at him, it had to be ‘indifferent’. you couldn’t deny that he was a great painting to look at and pretend ‘ugliness’ wasn’t a thing, but you’ve never really bothered to invest your emotions on anybody you deemed too far to reach.

so when he offers to walk you back to your place because of how late it was, it surprises you.

“why do you study in the community library and not the school library? i thought i’d see you with sunwoo or eric or hyunjun in school.”

“uh... i stay for awhile just to watch them mess around until they lose their stamina... the school library is filled with idiots who eat and make a fool of themselves which make it not-conducive... so i thought the community library is a better idea. besides, the school library closes at 7pm.”

“ah,” he laughs, and you could hear the swooning in the back of your head. “why am i not surprised?”

silence.

the awkward atmosphere was killing you, and it was difficult to swallow the fact that you could not think of anything to say.

luckily, you stay just about a ten minute walk from the library, so juyeon walks right past your residence without noticing you’ve stopped.

“uh-- juyeon...”

“huh? oh,” he halts in his tracks and turns around, sheepishly taking large steps back to you.

“thank you for walking me back.”

“it’s alright.”

silence, again.

“...goodnight.”

“goodnight, y/n.”

you purse your lips and offer him a polite smile, slightly surprised that he knows your name.

then again, he knows three of your classmates, and you were good friends with hyunjun.

he doesn’t leave until the lift takes you away from the lobby, the view of him waving to you with his unwaxed, tousled hair makes you smile to yourself once out of sight.

the arc of the story comes when you start to find candy under your desk a few weeks later.

you had stopped visiting the library because you were cooped up at home working on projects you needing your laptop for.

the sugar left on your desk seemed to be some kind of coaxing to get you to go back to the library.

the candy on the desk was the same one that you ate at the library, the one with the wrapper that juyeon picked up--

“hyunjun,” you call out to the boy who was passed out on the table, walking towards him.

“go away, i want to sleep--”

“you’ll sleep in class anyway,” grabbing his shoulders, it takes you some effort to peel him off the desk and make him sit upright. “you know who left this and i want to know who.”

hyunjun looks at you with bloodshot eyes, brows furrowing as he messes up his own hair.

“you sound like you already know who, so why do i need to bother telling you?”

the plastic of the candy wrapper crinkles in your hold as hyunjun’s head meets the table again.

again, it doesn’t take long for you to find out that juyeon might have a crush on you, and neither does it take long for you to reciprocate.

being with juyeon was like sitting on a car and going on a long road trip.

not many bumps, not many surprises, frankly, you were more than happy he was such an easy man to be with.

when juyeon graduates, he gets admitted into a performing arts academy in another city, leaving you in school where you still had to wear school uniform and wake up even before the sun rose.

but he makes an effort to come back to visit you, knowing that he was the older one with more freedom.

this long road trip, however, turns into a rollercoaster without warning, without your realisation.

the institute you enroll yourself into after graduation was located further away from the academy than your old school, but juyeon promises that he’d be with you whenever you could, and you promised the same.

distance becomes the first problem, when you realise how taxing it is to spend two hours travelling across the country to see him, and spend more time sitting on a bus or a train than actually being with him.

it starts to wear you away at the edges, fire burning the corners of ivory sheets with mandarin colored flames and leaving ashes the shade of coal on the floor.

then when juyeon was in his final year and you were halfway through your four year course, it was almost like he vanishes off the face of earth.

it worried you at first, that it felt like he was treating this four year relationship like he mattress he could fall back on anytime he wanted to.

you didn’t blame him, but it stings in the wounds that draw on your heart after a considerable amount of time.

was this what a long-distance-relationship encapsulated? how do couples who don’t even stay in the same country get through it?

you miss his scent, his arms around you, the way he smiles at you whenever you say something stupid or when he doesn’t get a joke and you had to explain it to him.

it feels like he has forgotten you, and it rips you apart that you knew why, that you understand he has his own responsibilities as a student in a prestigious performing arts academy.

but you can’t help but to think: if i could find time that i wanted to provide him, then why couldn’t he?

there was an expectation, and he didn’t meet it. naturally, it becomes a parasite in your love for juyeon. not only had you not seen him in months, his replies begin to spread out across days.

he doesn’t reply until more than 24 hours later, and even when he does, they are short. they are dry.

you start to wonder why he was being so irresponsible with a relationship, especially one that he initiated four years ago. your thoughts start to run wild in your head, and you worry if he had just been playing with you the entire time, and now he was probably kissing someone else in some dance studio in another city.

no, juyeon would never.

then the day came that he appears on social media after a long time. the light that filled you was so intense that you smiled just by noticing he’s finally not dead.

yet, you would’ve much preferred death over seeing another girl on his social media.

he didn’t have the time to respond to you, but he has the time to go out with another girl?

you leave him a text, trying to keep your cool and convince yourself that she was just a friend, and that he’d reply you as soon as possible if he knew you were feeling upset about him spending time with another girl.

hurt converts itself into something physical when he doesn’t reply.

one day passes, then two.

and soon, the whole week flies past.

calls don’t get through, much less messages.

just what was he doing?

you worry and wonder that he no longer loved you and he was merely running from you in hopes you’d leave him alone.

where had you gone wrong? were you a bad partner?

your grades started to take a toll, and memories of juyeon started to clog up in your head as if you weren’t already trying to tear your heart out of your chest.

juyeon no longer loves you.

he’s just having the time of his life in another city, with another girl, probably kissing her in the dance studio and running his hands all over her.

the mere thought kills you, so being able to actually imagine it in your head peels your skin off your body, leaving you in a wrecked mess on the floor with tissues used to wipe your tears.

then, sangyeon came along.

the fresh graduate was flustered when he sees a second-year student fallen apart in a tutorial room on his trips back to the university. but he recognises you from a branching out event you attended a month ago.

it lasted two weeks, and sangyeon was your teammate as a senior, so he was more than aware of your life and existence.

sang yeon stays a safe distance away from you while you try with way too much effort to calm your sobs down.

it’s not a surprise when it fails though, and you break down even harder with the force of someone beating you up

sangyeon doesn’t hesitate to scoot over to your side and pull you into his arms.

it was tricky, trying to recall what exactly you told him. your eyes were swollen and your face must’ve looked like a plum while your tears stained his shirt.

having someone’s shoulder to cry on was so comforting. it fills a gaping hole in your chest that shouldn’t be there in the first place.

sangyeon’s voice runs through your head like honey, honey that soothes the scalding burns juyeon left on your skin.

you knew it was dangerous, and there was a thin line to cross if you chose to let sangyeon through the doors of your heart.

most your friends weren’t truly aware of the status of the relationship, thus telling sangyeon everything at one go combusts you even further.

the urge to have someone’s skin pressed against yours, promising you that you were safe whenever they were around becomes painful to reject.

you will never forget the look in sangyeon’s eyes when you kiss him mid-sentence.

sangyeon tastes exactly his voice sounded, sweet and soft. his eyes were wide open the second you ram your lips into his.

his reluctance slips across your arm, feeling a small amount of force being applies to your elbow when he realises what was happening.

but that pressure softens, and he lets you treat him like juyeon, in attempt to cure your own broken heart.

you will make the biggest mistake you will ever make in your life that night, and that was letting yourself pretend sangyeon was juyeon.

not only were you the one who initiated the kiss in attempt to redeem the lack of affection you were none but craving, you chose to pretend juyeon was the one who spent the night leaving fluttering kisses all over your skin. to whisper words of comfort into your ears and kiss your tears away.

when you wake up and see a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in such close proximity to yours, it feels like a sword has been driven through your stomach.

then you hear hell knocking on your door, but he sounds like love and missing.

it is a crack, then a rip and a complete separation of your body into two when juyeon realises the door of your dorm room is not locked, and he has that bright smile on his face when he walks into the room, thinking you were asleep.

everything happens under a minute, and sangyeon wasn’t even fully awake by the time juyeon was in the room, seeing you in bed with another man.

the memory of a fight the magnitude of tremendous proportions etches itself in your brain like a parasite.

juyeon literally hurls sangyeon out the door, the only piece of clothing on him being his underwear.

there was an effort to stop juyeon, because you knew it for yourself that it was not sangyeon’s fault.

it was yours, and it always will be.

juyeon has the man’s clothes thrown out the door and he slams it shut in his face before you could say anything to sangyeon, locking both himself and you in the room.

have you ever seen the eyes of someone who has absolutely no clue what he did wrong?

they are broken, confused, hurt, angry. juyeon’s were coveted with a layer of tears just seconds away from billowing over his lower lids when he sees that your face was reddening from shame as well.

there was a heavy silence that could’ve killed you, and you wished it did.

“are you waiting for me to ask--”

“no.”

“so what’s your explanation?”

you dump yourself on the edge of your bed, fingers pressing into your temples. if you pressed hard enough, maybe you could drill your fingers into your skull and rip out your brain.

“y/n.”

why did your own name sound so threatening when it comes from his lips?

“why did you do it? the fact that we were saving it so we could be each other’s first after marriage but you go ahead and do it with someone else--”

“oh, is that the only thing you care about? sex?”

“no, that’s not what i meant--”

“i thought you’d be pissed off over the fact that i have another guy in the picture regardless of our relationship--”

“which is exactly what i’m asking right now!”

the skin on your forehead gets pulled back when your palms hold back your hair. being interrogated by juyeon in just a bra and home shorts felt so humiliating, so degrading, but you can’t help but to have that pang of hatred for juyeon.

he was the one who incited this. all you did was react in a way disproportionate to your feelings.

“why’d you do it, y/n?”

his voice is shaky, and you were terrified to look up at him because you knew he was already crying.

it shatters your heart; you were angry.

with him.

with yourself.

his feet shuffles against the floor and he kneels before you, eyes desperately searching yours for any sign of remorse. his hands wrap around yours but you pull away with resentment, and you can’t help but to feel like he was guilt tripping you into apologising.

it was my fault, but he incited it.

“y/n--”

“stop, don’t touch me--”

“tell me what’s wrong, we’ll figure i--”

“tell you ‘what’s wrong’?” it takes alot of courage to shove him off and you lose sight of what was fuelling your emotions. “i’ll tell you what’s wrong, lee juyeon.”

he is shocked and you could almost hear something crack when he hears his name come off your tongue like you were regurgitating poison.

“you disappear off the face of earth for god knows how long and then when you finally show up again, it’s with another girl?”

it takes you awhile to notice you were now standing, and he was leaning back with his palms flat on the floor behind him.

tears were streaming down the corners of his eyes and you know it was solely from the fact that he’s caught you red-handed but you weren’t showing signs of regret or remorse.

it eats you that he thinks this is not his fault.

“look me in the eye and tell me confidently that you’ve been a responsible partner.”

gut-wrenching surprise writes itself across his face when the demand leaves your lips like venom.

your eyes finally give in, hiccups starting to form in the back of your throat when the still silence gives you some kind of hint that this relationship was as good as gone.

“i wait for you to reply for three days, sometimes more, and all you do is say ‘okay’ or ‘alright’ or ‘nah’-- how am i supposed to be convinced you are invested in this relationship? i haven’t seen you in like, what? four months?! not a proper text, no proper calls, you don’t bother to visit me though you know i can’t because of my work--”

the breathlessness in your chest is a cage with loosened screws and nails, an angry, uncontrollable beast inside waiting to lash out and give juyeon a tight slap across the face.

“ask yourself, lee juyeon,” the sobs become one with the hiccups, and droplets of agonising reality falls off the point of your chin. “who was that girl and why did you not bother to text me back? call me?”

his face falls as if he wasn’t already in a million pieces. the silence feels like a dozen paper cuts on your fingers and your lips cracking in the cold. it sounds like a the car on a roadtrip screeching to a violent stop, and it hurls both of you through the windshield.

your soul is bleeding when you see a muscle in his face twitch, because you now know he is as guilty as you are, even if he didn’t sleep with her.

heartbreak forms a hand on the crown of your head and pushes you to nod. the tears along your jawline get wiped away with the back of your hand, the mucus running down your philtrum is a mess on your bare chest and your face is not recovered from the excessive crying in the last twelve hours.

juyeon is quiet, but screaming in pain through his eyes.

the weight of how broken the both of you were slams down on both your shoulders without warning, and you find enough energy to gulp and clear your throat.

“get out.”

the scene looks like a freeze-frame, and you shake your head at the sight of his unwillingness.

“get out, juyeon.”

it feels like a knife is being dragged across your throat when you say the last words you thought you’d ever say to him.

“we are through.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART 2

#lee juyeon #juyeon #the boyz #the boyz juyeon #juyeon smut #juyeon fanfic #the boyz smut #the boyz fanfic #the boyz angst #angst

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snowflake-apocalypse · 4 years ago

Text

“English is a difficult language. It can be understood through tough thorough thought, though.”

“You need to stop.”

It’s been six months since the formation of Global Justice’s new aces, “Team Go-Possible”. Though, the rhyme and reason of it was wrong, Shego was actually enjoying the partnership with her former rivals. Dare she ever admit it out loud. The three grew to have a good dynamic, she thought. Between conversations about world events and the audacity of Club Banana creating a brach-off store, to the double-edged sarcasm they dished out to their adversaries in combat.

Team GP’s missions took them near and far around globe. This time, it was a nuclear power plant in the blustery Netherlands. Some madman claiming the greed of the world has grown to great. That he was the salvation it needed. His answer to said salvation? Implode the richest nuclear power plant in the world to prove his point.

This has got to be the seventh extremist kook we’ve taken on this month.. though the dude’s not wrong..

Kim and Shego are in route to the mountain side factory. Shego landing their sleek jet on an empty field with concentrated ease.“Okie dokie, let’s go get Mr. Doom Gloom before he turns the mountain side into a mushroom cloud-.” Shego powers their craft down, switching various instruments this way and that.

“-Don’t know about you, Kimmie but I’m looking forward to the bocca coffee. No stupid avalanche is going to ruin that.”

Double checking her equipment, Kim spares the woman a glance. “Heh, glad to know where your priorities are, Shego.-” Kim directs her attention to their mission control via comm link.

“-Hey, Wade you got a lock on our position?”

“Always do.” From GJ headquarters, the tech wiz of the team zooms his screen in on their target.

“That is the most creepy, heartwarming thing I’ve heard from you, Load.” Shego quips, donning her green and black cold weather apparel. When she accepted Betty’s offer, the one thing she swore is that she was keeping her colors.

“Uh..thanks? Anyway, I’ve scanned the interior of the facility, the reactor is located in the south side of the building.” Through the wrist-worn Kimmunictor, a holographic layout of the factory appears. Detailing the whereabouts of their target, only one heat signature appears on the layout. The reactor, they assume.

“Wade, this guy is working alone?” Kim quizzical asks, zooming in on the projection.

“From my latest update, yes. The building has been evacuated for safety. No other intel I’ve collected suggests multiple culprits.-“

Wade swipes through the limited file he has on their perp. He had an uneasy feeling about this caper, but couldn’t justify it from a hunch. “-But, please still be careful, you two.”

Shego, after getting one last solid look at the diagram, closes her hand on the blueprint. “Will do, dad. Thanks.”

——

Approaching the bolted door of the factory, Kim still voiced her concerns., “Y’know, I just wished we had more information on this guy.”

Shego directs a small concentration of searing plasma at the deadlock, freeing the door. “Yeah, well I wished they’d appear at GJ’s doorstep. Or just stayed home.”

Cautiously pushing the door open, Shego scans the left side of the interior, while Kim covers the right.

“Okay, Wade. It looks as empty as you said.- Wade? Wade.” Kim, only being met with silence, tries and fails to reach their partner. Somewhere along the trek, the so-called incorruptible signal was lost.

“Fan-freakin’-tastic. Guess the altitude is the weakness.” Rolling her eyes, Shego marches on. “Let’s just shut this joint down before we get any more surprises.” Despite her quiet tone, Shego’s voice echos throughout the vast building.

Creeping through the corridors, the women stay on alert. Passing abandoned offices, break rooms, only Kim’s quiet chatter fills the space. “Hey, about that coffee, you also want to stop at Portugal of the Little Ones?”

“Are you serious, Possible? You want to visit a tiny replica city in Portugal?” Shego raises an eyebrow in Kim’s direction.

“...Yeah.”

If you don’t stop making that damn face...

“..Okay, fine. Portugal.” Shego huffs in faux annoyance. The pair rounded the corner to the vast power center of the facility, the two spot the ticking time bomb.

“Bingo!” Shego exclaimed, running up to the reactor. Which had been armed with specialized munitions.

“This is new.. Newer. What the hell kind of explosive is this?” The younger agent puzzles.

The device, almost cybernetic, jet-black with a single blinking blue light. Upon closer examination, Shego makes out a faintly marked two-pronged arch on the surface. Gaping at the realization, she snaps of her shock.

“No.. No way...”

“What’s up? What is it?”

“This looks like a prototype product of Gemini’s splinter cell scientists. Before he broke off to W.E.E. It’s not on a timer, it’s remote detonation.”

“Gemini? Hold on, then how is some random guy get a his hands on-“

Before Kim could finish her statement, a man’s honeyed voice breaks through the atmosphere.

“Well, you always were the most observant of the team, Shego. Bravo.”

On the grated deck before them, stood a man. Medium build, piercing blue eyes, a mop of brown hair turning grey. All pulled together by a navy trench coat and tactical cargo slacks.

“Sorry, don’t think we’ve met. Unless I’ve taken you hostage or saved you from a flooding city before.” Shego deadpanned, hands resting on her hips.

Leisurely leaning on the rail of the balcony, a shiftiness displayed in his eyes. “Oh no, I didn’t expect you to be familiar with me. But I have been following the folly of Global Justice’s new dream team. I must say, you are quite the force to be reckoned with.”

“And we really don’t want you to find out why.” Kim interjects, conviction lacing her voice.

“-So if you could hand over the remote, shut down the detonation, then maybe we can reach an agreement.”

“Possible. Kim. Of all the people in the bloody world, I thought you would be one to know.. it’s never that simple.” Faster than her reflexes, the man draws a sleek laser-gun from his coat and fires upon the unsuspecting woman.

Center mass.

Direct hit.

“Gah!” With a cry, Kim covers the wound with her hand, bracing herself on her knees.

“Hey!” Shego booms. Hands ablaze, she charges their suspect... no, enemy now.

Kim, biting back the shock and pain, rises to her feet.

Damnit... Sloppy. Get up, Possible.

Kim averts her concentration back to the reactor. Without Wade, she scrambles to find a bypass way of disarming the bomb.

Firing scorching blast after blast, Shego dodges the rounds aimed at her. The room being filled with the leaden smell of burning metal, as the balcony gave way to the force of plasma.

“I swear, that god-forsaken organization is more concerned with the stock market and shiny toys than actual global security-and you! You radioactive madwoman, turn your back on your very profession! The Emerald Rage can’t even decide who’s side she’s on!” Anger and outrage boiling from the man the closer she got.

“Yeah.. y’know your twenties when you’re trying figure shit out... a lot of grey area and robberies in there.” Flipping onto the grate, Shego faces the man with a controlled fury.

“Oh, also I’m on my side and no one else’s. Which, coincidently is the side that doesn’t want a giant crater in the middle of the Netherlands!” Weaving between a few more shots, Shego disarms the man. She restrains him in a firm, plasma-fortified grip. Not enough juice for a second degree burn, but it sure wasn’t comfortable.

“Hello.” The welcome rolling off his tongue like an invitation.

Abruptly Shego is met with a viscous head-butt and a solid tungsten bracelet around her wrist.

“Grrr-! What the hell-!?” Collecting her wits, Shego paws at the metal. Kicking up the intensity of her powers in hopes of liquifying the substance.

Her foe stands back in smug satisfaction, watching her ferocity slowly turn to languid effort. Her flames spasmed, then doused like a candle in the wind.

Shego lightheaded and pale, collapses with heavy bang on the cold metal.

Crouching next fallen woman, he gingerly strokes her raven hair. Conceited grin never leaving his face. “Oh, my my. Did dear Mother Director not tell you about the adverse correlation between tungsten and the Aether comet? I don’t blame her. Must’ve been frightening for her to raise super-powered children, especially if she had no way of controlling them.”

The clamber drawing Kim away from her task, horror at watching the strongest person she knew hit the floor. “Shego!”

“No, no.” Motioning to the button on the detonator remote, he actives the explosives. Sending the entire right side of the structure up in blazing destruction.

Kim instinctively covers her head, in an effort to shield herself from the blast. Evading wooden beams and falling debris, Kim steels and drives on towards her ally.

Producing a small syringe from his coat, filled with a concentrated supply of the fatal alloy. He methodically pushed back the sleeve of Shego’s fleece, carefully injecting the liquid into her bloodstream.

“My father, Jeremiah Asbell had so much passion for his work. So much drive to create a better world. What did he receive for his endeavours? Scorn and betrayal by the very people he supported!-“

Jeremiah Absell.. Absell.. Dr. Absolute. Wait, he had a kid?

“-All to be handed back by some punk children who should’ve been left in a crater.”

As the tungsten courses through her system, melds with her mutated cells, Shego braces the pain gripping her body. She clenches her teeth, fighting for some kind of spark of her dwindling power.

Thanks, Betty. Chalk this up to another ‘I got your back, kid.’ move. Trust sure ran deep there.

With a flicker of ginger hair catching her attention behind a wall, Shego arduously motions her head to face Kim. Olive meets emerald eyes.

After all of the years they spent trading blows, like scorpions in a bottle, after the late night discussions they’d have when neither could sleep... they both knew that look. The look of unwavering determination meeting one of unabated stubbornness. With all of the unknown wild cards revealed, Shego couldn’t afford both of them being killed.

Mustering as much strength as she could, Shego discreetly raises her hand, stopping Kim in her tracks.

Don’t you dare.

#Kim Possible #Shego #Team Go-Possible #GJ Days #au #a softer world #global justice #Wade load #part one of.....

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hoodoo12 · 4 years ago

Text

Festival (28/30)

@beejiesbitch @turtlepated @clairjohnson @memedemonhours @monsterlovinghours @yankyo @edosunshine @saucymangos @go-commander-kim @beetlebitchywitch

Kadus' mouth was so close to hers she could taste his breath, and Pink shivered as his cock pumped gush after thick gush of his come. She allowed her belly to swell to accommodate every drop he gave her, filling her distended uterus like a balloon.

She moaned low in her throat at the feeling of him coming inside her, and managed just barely to answer him.

"Yes--fuck, yes I'm coming!" she whimpered, holding his head to hers and kissing him hungrily. Her tongue swirled around his own and she sucked tenderly at his mouth with her own. Her lower half bobbed on his cock, keeping him deep inside her as she did so.

Soft hands stroked his rear and thighs, massaging his balls as well while Pink tensed around him almost impossibly with a tiny cloud of pink flowers bursting from her locks and peppering the ground beneath them.

Kadus returned her kiss as best he could, panting through the last stages of his orgasm. This time he was able to watch her as she let herself go with pleasure, her eyes screwed shut, her lips parted and shiny, the minute changes in expression as she focused on herself for a moment instead of him. The flowers that continued to burst from her made him chuckle, although her cunt milking him made it quickly devolve to another gasp. He’d never seen anything so lovely.

There was a slight tremble in his flanks and limbs and he could feel patches of sweat on him as if he’d just run a race, but he held steady while Pink luxuriated in her climax. She still managed to hold in his come, although he could easily see her belly was distended. Reverently, he massaged her abdomen where he could reach. In stages, his cock softened and slipped from her. Although the sun wasn’t quite up yet, it was closer than not. People were beginning to say final fare wells, and the clearing was not as crowded as it had been throughout the night. Imps tried to get a last taste of come before they disappeared, but he stamped his hind hooves to keep them off the tip of his leaking cock and away from his lover.

“I hate to say this, but we haven’t much time,” he murmured near her ear.

⁂

The sudden addition of hands at his knees a cool tongue at his balls caused Beej to tremble and whine, though he made no move to pull away. Carmen's cunt was squeezing so tightly around his tip and nudging herself down his length just a bit while the pressure inside her pushed down on him.

It took him a moment to decide to shorten his cock, though the girth remained the same. He adjusted himself so that Carmen could writhe and buck to her heart's content without injuring her inner walls by taking too much.

Shakily, one hand extended from behind him, cupping the back of BJ's head in invitation as he continued to lap at the base of Beej's cock and over Jessie's soaked cunt and ass.

Jessie jolted slightly at the unexpected cool of her lover's tongue, having been so focused on the throbbing clit in her mouth. His praising words only deepened the pleasure she felt once they settled into her brain, the attention to her needy body pushing her so very close to the edge it was all she could do to continue to focus.

The rush of slick and come that seeped around Beej's cock was warm against her skin, and dribbled down over Beej's shaft and sack. She rutted herself against this the fluid-covered cock and arched her back to expose herself more readily to BJ's tongue.

Finally, she released Carmen with a loud moan, resting her forehead beside her clit to continue the transfer of sensations as she came, cunt and ass twitching against BJ's tongue as she held on for dear life to the cock beneath her.

It swelled a bit as Beej lost the battle of holding himself together. His balls raised and his taint twitched as thick come rushed through his cock and into his lover once more. With just enough awareness to realize she was already overfilled, he changed the shape of his shaft, denting the top of it to allow the excess spend to seep out beneath his cock and flow down to drip to the ground below.

Carmen wrested her hands away from their soft restraint and held her stomach. “I c-can’t, I can’t--please, Beej, oh god--”

Although hard pleasure still lit every nerve, the amount of come in her became too much. A deep ache made her sob; luckily, through his own pleasure Beej understood and shifted his cock enough to provide some release. She sobbed quietly again as the pressure lessened. He’d been so accommodating with her aphrodisiac-fueled requests, but she’d reached her body’s limits.

Jessie’s peaking pleasure made him groan even as he refused to take his tongue off her. She’d wanted to take some fairy food home, but BJ couldn’t imagine anything as delicious as her; she was all the treat he needed. His lover rutted against the shaft below her, even as come leaked out of the stretched pussy she’d been so eager to taste. BJ knew she probably reveled in the fact she’d brought both of them to orgasm, and it didn’t surprise him to hear her laugh at the rush of come that flowed partially over her.

What was more difficult was to abid by her request and not let the domino effect take him as well. His balls felt tight and his cock felt impossibly hard. If he’d been alive he knew it’d be deep in color from the restriction. It’d feel so good to just let go, but he knew it’d feel even better with the tight heat of her cunt.

With a groan, BJ gave her one last harsh lap between her legs. Jessie slid a little forward in the slick come but he heard her gasp and giggle, then he straightened back up. The trio before him lazed in a post-euphoric daze, but he cast a quick glance around. It was clearing out; most of the fey was disappearing with the crowning dawn. There were less witches too, and the ones still there were getting dressed, hugging, and saying good-bye. The minotaur was still by the fire, watching them, and Beej’s clone was wrapped up with a centaur? It almost looked like she’d been bringing him back but got caught up with one last tryst.

The only beings that still seemed numerous were the imps; several still hung around like over-sized moths, waiting for an opportunity to try and get close to spend gentitals again. Others were lapping at the ground in various spots, and squabbling with one another if there was an area saturated with come. BJ chuckled, watching them. It was a good distraction from his throbbing cock and his pent up release.

⁂

With her eyes fluttering slightly, Pink took a moment to comprehend the words spoken so close to her ear. She leaned her body against his, holding him as she trembled and spasmed around the heavy wombful of come that she held. She willed her body to shorten once more to her typical dimensions, dragging herself along his underside and his front as she resumed her original frame, smaller than his own upper torso.

The amount of his spend that she held bulged her stomach out as though she were in the later stages of pregnancy. Every aspect of her besides was equally changed, the grayish palor of her skin had a deeper tone, the magenta dusting of her cheeks remained and her hair, lush and longer than normal wove into curls as it mingled with the vines and flowers that sprouted and continued to leave pink petals raining around her in sparse quantities.

Pink looked down at herself, pressed slightly away from him by the increased girth of her come-bloated belly, and giggled softly. Her hands moved to the top and bottom of the swell, thinking that the form she’d achieved was… oddly satisfying. She had never had delusions of motherhood--she was incomplete in too many ways and dead as well. She had also never attended a fertility celebration before, or been filled with such a large amount of living seed. It warmed her inside still, the second load cooling slowly within her tepid body.

“It’s true . . . come, I would at the least like you to meet . . . well, I suppose the rest of me,” she answered in a matching tone. Leaning in, she kissed him again briefly as though she couldn’t possibly get enough of his touch. This seemed even more the case as she turned herself to float with him, arm in arm, toward Beej and Carmen and their company.

⁂

The tugging at his limbs with which he held his lover in place so she could more fully enjoy what appeared likely to be the last orgasm of the celebration made Beej almost chuckle. It was difficult to acknowledge how deeply glad he was that she could enjoy herself so fully, especially in front of others and even with strangers when he was throttled by throes of ecstasy that seemed too expansive, too involved and extraneous for him to keep up with them. It felt for all the world like he had a pussy right in that moment, grinding a throbbing, aching clit against something cool and velvety, the pleasure hot and abrupt.

There was also the distinct sensation of the tip of his half-flaccid and now oddly shaped cock still holding the majority of his come inside Carmen, the rushes of fluid that pushed forward into her and forced still more out. He felt the tears dripping from her cheek to his shoulder and halted himself with a groan. It was almost painful, closing off the flow of come that was abnormally copious with the shape he’d taken, but he did so to keep her from being hurt, and he smiled when she seemed to feel the relief he sought to offer. Tipping his head back, he continued to hold her gently but firmly in place as Jessie’s pleasure radiated through them.

Jessie shivered, covered in sticky fluids and still tingling in the aftershocks of bliss. Her lips were drawn into a loopy smile. Finally pulling away from Carmen and turning to look toward BJ, she reined herself in once more and popped over to his shoulder to hug his neck and give him affectionate kisses. She was glad that in her vanishing from Beej’s cock, the warm fluid that had covered her was left behind, though the idea of having spread some onto him as well made her giggle.

“Thank you babe. I promise, I’ll take every single drop as deep in my pussy as you can put it, just as soon as I’m the proper size again. Can’t be much longer now, can it?” she purred into his ear, impressed that he appeared to have kept his word to hold off.

She wouldn’t have blamed him, of course, but it made her warm and achy beyond the dull fatigue of having fucked so very much. The novelty of the night had worn off mostly, and as fueled and excited as she was by all things new and exciting she had found her peak so many times it was impossible not to feel a bit worn.

The sound of hoofprints nearby made her turn her attention toward the clearing, surprised to see a centaur and . . . what appeared to be a female version of the guy whose cock she had just rutted on? She did a double-take between the flower-laden newcomer and the magenta-haired ghost holding Carmen cradled against himself.

As Beej noticed his clone approaching with company, he looked both surprised and delighted, and straightened his positioning to hold the both of them more upright. The multitude of limbs he’d sprouted dwindled, most retreating into his flesh once more save for two sets of arms. Three of them held Carmen securely to his chest and stomach, and he waved with the other a little in greeting.

“Yer--”

“Covered in flowers?” Pink asked, finishing the observation with a giggle.

Beej had been about to say ‘pregnant’, but her break in his thoughts helped him recall that that would be impossible. Still, she’d both approached her playmate of choice and brought him back for introductions! He was oddly proud of his clone--of this usually timid and repressed portion of himself.

“Kadus, this is Beej--he’s the one of whom I am a part,” she explained, turning to glance at her kindly lover. “And this is our lover, Carmen.” She continued fondly, unable to keep herself from looking back over the beautiful body cradled against her original. “And I’d like both of you to meet Kadus. He’s been so lovely, very accepting and kind.”

tbc . . .

#writing #fanfiction #Beetlejuice #Musical Beetlejuice #Movie Beetlejuice #Beetlejuice x OC #OC x OC #Festival #rp #long fic

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ravens-rambling · 4 years ago

Text

Just Keep Swimming, Just Keep Swimming

A/N: Some morreeee

Soulmate September! by @tsshipmonth2020

aanndddd

100 (G/T) prompts!!! - Rise

summary: Two partners have been looking for their last soulmate for years, and they finally found him in the least likely of places.

WC: 1,645

ships: Romantic Roman x Patton x Janus

warnings: Scarring, Mention of wounds, People being treated like animals, Neglect

Tag List: @punsterterry @stormcrawler75 @frostedlover @mycatshuman @mutechild @panicattheeverywhere15 @overlord-winter @analogical-mess @saddestlittlebabe

“Roman… you really don’t have to get the fish for me, it’s okay. Let’s just go home, alright?”

“But you said you really wanted this fish! And so I’m gonna get it! Don’t worry, this next one I’m gonna win, just you wait!” He tossed another ring towards the gold center and he groaned when it hit close to the edge but completely went off course. “Dammit! This thing is ringed! I swear it is! But I don’t care, my boyfriend wants that fish and I’m gonna get it for him!” He slammed down another dollar. “More rings! Now!”

Patton had to chuckle softly at that, he always loved how headstrong Roman could be at the simplest of things. He definitely won’t be this determined about one game if he was Roman. And he knows that…once Roman is fired up nothing will stop him until he gets what he wants. So he knows they’re going to be here for a while.

Luckily, the very next ring he tossed managed to go around the middle golden pole and they both cheered. The carny behind the counter even looked surprised, and Patton knew that it was rigged for sure.

But once they finished cheering they were handed the small bag with the supposed fish inside. But the water was so murky that neither of them could see inside. However, they both were too happy to care right at this moment and they thanked the staff member before heading out. It was getting rather late anyways and they both have work tomorrow. They thought they could have a cute date to the carnival while they have half a day to waste. And they had a blast.

Once Roman started driving, however, Patton looked down at the bag and frowned. “Uh… Roman? Are waters for fish suppose to be this murky? I can’t see anything in there… Are you sure they didn’t just give us a bag full of old water?”

Roman paused and he snorted, “Well if they did then I’m gonna sue. I spent twenty dollars on that one game! It may not seem like much, but we could’ve gone to a store and bought a fish there for that much! Course, that game was obviously rigged so… who knows really.” He sighed but once he came to a stop he reached for the bag and looked underneath. “Oh, wait, I think I see a bit of a gold tail on the bottom here, you see that?” He pointed and Patton looked at the bottom too.

“Oh, yeah… I see it. Huh… then maybe he’s just shy. Well, once we get inside you look in the attic cause I know we had an old fish tank from a few years ago stored up there and I’ll get everything else ready? And I’ll look up what type of water a goldfish needs? Oh! And we gonna come up with a name for this little guy! Once we see him properly then we can name him!” Patton reached over to kiss Roman’s cheek. “Thank you for this, Ro-Ro. Your so amazing.”

“Mhm, sounds like a plan. And no problem, Patty. How could I say no to your adorable face?” Roman purred back and kissed him before the light went green and he started driving again.

What they didn’t realize is that their second soulmate timer on their wrist…just went to zero.

Once they got inside Roman went upstairs to look for the tank and Patton was already looking up about the filters and such for the goldfish. Luckily the filter they had before would work perfectly, so he started gathering everything up that he could and making space for the tank. After that, he went upstairs to help Roman search, and after quite some time of searching around, they did indeed found the tank. They brought it downstairs to clean it and the filter, then they poured water into it and waited for it to be filled up. And once it filled up they gently tilted the murky bag into the new freshwater. They saw a golden thing dart down into the water and hide behind one of the huge plastic grass they had. They didn’t see what it looked like, other than a dull golden tail…

“Aw… he’s just shy! Let’s leave him alone for the night to get used to his new home! And let’s go to bed, we have work in the morning.” Patton kissed Roman’s cheek and giggled as he rushed upstairs. Roman chuckled and followed right behind him.

That morning they had found that their second timer had gone down to zero last night, it must’ve been at the carnival. So their soulmate was with them at the carnival! But there were so many people there it would’ve been like trying to find a pin in a haystack! Patton had suggested going back to the carnival tonight, and they would be really crunching it in terms of time, but it won’t be impossible… so that was their plan tonight, and needless to say that they both were so excited. They’ve been looking for their last soulmate for years! And they had just passed their soulmate last night!

The moment they got off work they headed straight to the carnival and split up to search around. They’ll know if they have found their soulmate if their timer starts glowing faintly. But they searched for hours and…nothing…

Patton was the most bummed out, he really wanted to meet his last soulmate. And even Roman had to admit that he was…sad. Very sad.

Every day they went to the carnival to try and see if they could find their soulmate. And every day was…no luck. They were starting to think that their soulmate won’t be coming back to the carnival and they truly lost their only chance at finding them… to make matters worse the goldfish they had gotten hasn’t come out of its plastic grass for days! Ever since they bought him the little guy hasn’t even come out for food….they were starting to think that the little guy died.

So, all in all, it really wasn’t…a good few days for either of them. It felt like they both had the poorest luck known to man…

That was until one day came along that changed it all for the better.

Roman was cleaning up the house while Patton is at work, he figured he could straighten up some while he’s gone. He was cleaning up near the fish tank when he started hearing weak hurt whimpers of pain. It was so quiet and dull that he had to strain his ears to listen, but it was there. He looked around and looked under the table…nothing. It sounded like it was coming…from in the tank? What?

Slowly his pale brown eyes turned to face the tank, and what he saw there made his eyes widened and a loud gasp coming from his mouth.

Trapped under some decorative shiny rocks…was a golden tail. But it wasn’t any normal golden body of a fish. No, this little guy had the tail of a goldfish but…the body of a human! That’s…a merman! And a very stuck and hurt merman!

“Oh, dear! Oh dear, I’ll save you! Hang on!” Roman didn’t even think before he dipped his hand into the tank and gently lifted up the rocks, he tossed them aside out of the tank then he gently scooped up the tiny little golden merman and rose him towards his face. He was so tiny that he couldn’t even fit fully in the palm of his hand.

“Hello there… Woah… your so gorgeous…”

This merman had light brown curly hair that stuck to the sides of his face. And he was skinny… very… very skinny… Roman is certain he could see the little thing’s ribs! The poor thing had…a lot of scars too, the most noticeable one was the burnt scar covering half of his face, it went from his nose all the way down his neck and shoulder. That side’s eye was pale white, and it was clear to Roman that he was blind in that eye. The rest of his body was covered in burns and other tiny scars. And…he was so tiny…he must’ve been only a few inches tall!

And…another thing…the merman looked terrified while being in Roman’s hand. He was panting heavily and trying to scoot away from his face. So, Roman gently placed him back inside the tank.

“Woah, woah, I’m not doing anything to you, little guy. You have some cuts there but I don’t think you need any bandaging. But I’ll keep an eye on it anyways, it could get infected. You really are beautiful…”

Roman saw a faint glowing gold in the corner of his eye and blinked. What is… but when he looked down to see his wrist, his timer that went down to zero a few days ago, was glowing this dazzling gold color that is an awful lot like the scales of this merman…

“Oh…. Oh, my God…” Roman whispered and looked back at the small creature carefully. He looked at the other’s wrist, and if he squinted he could see…there’s a timer on his wrist too. And it was glowing red, he even had another timer below that one. And both of those timers were on zero! Even the creature looked shocked as well.

Roman couldn’t believe it! That’s why they couldn’t find their soulmate again in the carnival! That’s why it took them years to find their third! Cause it was a merman all along!

Frantically Roman dashed off to find a phone to call Patton, leaving a very confused and startled tiny merman in his sight. The multicolored eyes of the merman glanced down to his timer and swallowed.

“Maybe all humans aren’t so bad after all…”

#roman sanders #roman #patton sanders #patton #janus #janus sanders #idk what the ship is called so uuuhhhh yeah #roman x patton x janus #merman janus #sanders sides #sanders sides soulmate au #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fic #romantic roman x patton x janus #tsshipmonth2020 #my fics

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sabretoothandsin · 4 years ago

Text

Black is the Color

The reader fell in love with Ahkmenrah after meeting him at one of the ‘living history’ nights at the New York Museum of Natural history. A little while after finding out the truth about him and everyone else in the museum during your courtship, you were able to get a job as the second night guard. Sure you did help Larry out with some of the more unruly exhibits but mostly you just spent time with your love. The two of you have fallen into a comfortable, romantic, bliss. You spend a night teaching him how to paint his nails and just spending time together. The next night Ahk's world changes forever.

(It’s much better written than the description I’m just a bit burnt out as I right this.)

Word count: 1797 // Warnings: death of reader, mention of terrorism, slight talk of death and Ahk’s mummified state // Genre: very fluffy then very angsty // Reader information: she/her pronouns used once or twice but other than that nothing really gendered like a physical description or being called “a girl” or anything

One of those calmer nights, you were sitting on the floor with your hands resting on one of the many benches, painting your nails. Black first, then a shiny red top coat.

Ahkmenrah approached and sat on the floor beside you. "Would you teach me to do that?" he asked with a smile.

"Sure," you said, a bit surprised but eager to show him all the same.

"Here,” You took his hand in yours and inspected it for things like bad hangnails before setting it back down again.

As you held his hand you saw the way he was looking at you out of the corner of your eye. That way that he looked at you nearly every night, but that still made your heart flutter and your face flush. But you really didn’t feel like getting flustered right now.

“You can use this one,” you cleared your throat as you offered him the small bottle of black paint.

“Black?” he questioned.

“It’s very manly,” you mused, “And it would go great with all the gold you wear.”

Your fingers brushed over the beaded fabric that draped over his chest as you said this.

“If you say so, darling.”

You walked him through the whole process. You giggled when he awkwardly shook the little glass bottle as you had shown him, and at the frustration on his face when he spilled polish on the bench. "Oh it's fine," you said, "just don't drip it on that priceless capey thing of yours."

"It’s a tunic," he chuckled. That was probably the thousandth time you’d said that and the thousandth time he’s had to correct you.

When you showed him how to apply the nail polish, he was a little messy at first and hummed at each mistake.

“Ya know,” you began, watching him meticulously slide the brush over his nail, his lips pursed as he concentrated. Perhaps he was a bit too focused.

“Painting one’s dominant hand is actually one of the most difficult tasks a modern person can face."

"Oh really," Ahk half-laughed. “If that’s the case I don’t think the human race will survive to see another generation. That is, unless of course, we intervene.”

You hid your face as you felt it turn red. Sometimes you forgot that he could be… like that.

Your love nudged you with his elbow before he started to stand.

“You’re not going anywhere just yet, pretty boy,” you said, pulling him back down, “you've gotta sit here and let them dry."

"I can't do anything else?"

"Nope.”

"For how long?”

"Too long. Now sit.”

He obliged.

You blew on your nails in demonstration and he timidly mimicked you. He coughed and shook his head when the chemical scent hit his nostrils.

"Ah, yeah you don’t want that." you said, "give me your hand."

His hand rested on yours while you fanned the drying paint with your other hand.

After a bit, you showed him how to test if they were dry. You smiled at the way he cringed at the sticky feeling.

You two just sat there for a while, enjoying each other’s company. You loved every moment you got to spend with him even if all you were doing was watching paint dry.

"Ahk, they look great!"

He beamed at the compliment.

"Thank you for teaching me, darling," he said.

You kissed him on the cheek in response.

"Oh, and you should definitely keep this," you said, handing him back the bottle of black polish.

It was movie night at the museum. The whole time, both yours and Ahk’s attentions were completely on each other, rather than the film. You held his hand in yours beneath the blanket you shared, brushing your thumb over the smoothly painted surfaces of his fingernails. Your hands remained intertwined as you walked back to his exhibit.

"Good night, my darling," he said, kissing your forehead, "you are truly a wonderful teacher."

“Goodnight, Love,” you said.

You brought his hand to your lips and pressed a lingering kiss to the soft skin. Your lips trailed to his wrist and then his palm.

Without even looking up at his face you could practically feel how he was melting. His skin grew warmer beneath your touch. Had there been more time before sunrise, you knew he would have liked to grab you and kiss you hard and probably ravish you on his bed, concealed by the Anubis statues. But eventually, reluctantly, he pulled away and stepped into the sarcophagus, still holding your hand.

"See you when the sun goes down,” you said quietly.

“Until then, I’ll dream of you.”

He placed the little bottle in his encasing and you closed the lid. He had never quite figured out if he was able to dream, but it was a nice thought. He closed his eyes and clutched the glass bottle in his hand, trying not to focus on that familiar pain of the transformation back to a corpse.

Tonight he didn’t feel the decay of his flesh or the air being sucked out of his lungs. All he felt was the ghost of your hands holding his.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next night, Ahkmenrah was greeted by Larry instead of y/n.

"Oh," he said, surprised. Larry hadn't been the one to help him out of his exhibit in years.

"Hey, Ahkmenrah," Larry said hesitantly, after the man had gotten unwrapped and dressed, "can we sit down? " he motioned to the nearby bench.

"Sure," he said, a bit perplexed, "is y/n sick?"

The man beside him didn’t answer. He just looked down at his hands in silence for a minute. The minute dragged on for ages, to Ahkmenrah. He shifted in his seat, suddenly overcome with a wave of anxiety. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingertips running over smooth, painted nails.

"Um, so,” Larry finally stuttered, “this afternoon, there was a terrorist attack - wiped out three whole blocks."

The pharaoh felt a pang in his heart at the same time as a weight lifted off his shoulders. The anxiety washed away.

"My friend, I'm so sorry," he said, resting a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder. “I will pray to the gods for all the innocent souls who were lost to your people.”

“Thank you, Ahk.” The night guard's face hinted at a sad smile before it became even more forlorn and... sympathetic.

"But, ya see," he said, the words getting stuck in his throat, "those three blocks included y/n's apartment."

The pharaoh looked confused. His head felt heavy. He furrowed his brow as he tried to comprehend what the other man was saying.

"She was inside," Larry continued, "when the building collapsed. I'm- I’m so sorry."

Pain and grief seared through the Egyptian, but he shook it off.

"It's alright," he said, taking a deep breath, trying to banish the sobs that threatened to breach his lips, "I know how to perform a mummification. I have all the same rights as a high priest. I can preserve her body and she can be restored to life by the tablet. Where's her body?"

The other man didn’t say anything for a moment as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“Where is her body, Larry?” Ahkmenrah demanded, urgency rising in his voice.

"Ahk, there is no body - the whole area is- it’s just dust." His voice trailed off.

"You mean-” Ahkmenrah’s head was swimming. He had just seen her last night. None of this could be real.

And yet the words still escaped his lips. His mind knew what his heart refused to admit.

“She's gone?"

His friend nodded, squeezing Ahkmenrah’s hand which at some point he had started holding without him noticing.

The beginnings of words sputtered out of Ahkmenrah's mouth as his face grew more and more distraught and his heart grew more and more heavy. Finally, a silent sob shook his body and he found himself falling onto his friend. Larry held him and ran his hands up and down his back. The tears flowed freely for hours. That night, the museum halls were filled with hardly any sound besides the anguished cries of an immortal in mourning.

That night Larry and whoever else was within hearing distance would learn that there’s no sound more melancholic than that of one who can not be touched by death, feeling its affects more than anyone else ever could.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The once-strong pharaoh was never the same. The first night after, he asked Larry to let him remain in his sarcophagus.

"You know I might be too busy to let you out later?" the man asked, concerned.

"I know. Please close the lid." there was no emotion in the king’s voice.

He slept with the little bottle of black nail polish curled up in his hand. The next night, when Theodore did finally convince him to come out, he just sat on the edge of the glass case that covered his sarcophagus, staring at his hands.

He was never truly his old, more energetic self again. And his fingernails were always perfectly painted black.

Larry POV

"Larry! Larry!" a voice shouted, rapidly growing closer to the busy night guard. Running down the hall was... Ahkmenrah? He hadn't seen him run in months, ever since she had passed.

"What's wrong?" He asked. He figured whatever it was must be terribly serious.

"I ran out," Ahkmenrah panted.

"Of-Ran out of what?”

Ahk showed him the little, scratched up, empty bottle.

"I ran out!" he said again, the distress in his voice palpable. He sounded almost on the verge of tears.

Realization dawned on Larry. It must have been hers. In fact, it was probably the only thing Ahkmenrah had left from her.

"Hey, it's okay,” he said, resting a soothing hand on the pharaoh’s shoulder, “I'll pick some up for you in the morning, okay? It’s alright.”

"Okay" Ahkmenrah choked out.

End Larry POV

Ahkmenrah slept from that night on with the old bottle in his palm under his wrappings. Before he knew it, it had been decades since Larry had taken the job. Tonight was the new guard's first night.

A woman with short, blue hair let him out of the coffin. Her gold necklace dangled above him.

"Hello, I'm Kirstin," she said, offering her hand to help him out of his resting place.

Ahk looked at her apathetically. He sat up, took her hand, and inspected it. Her nails were painted a neon blue.

"I need some of this. Black." he said dryly.

He dropped her hand.

"Do you need help with the-"

"No."

When she left, he unwrapped his hands. His fingers brushed the aging glass of the bottle, before he gently placed it down in his sarcophagus.

'Good morning, my love.'

'Good evening, my darling.'

#ahkmenrah #natm #night at the museum #ahkmenrah x reader #x #reader #reader insert #y/n #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #angst #larry daley #pharaoh

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years ago

Text

Working Like a Charm

Sammie Smith’s body ached. Every muscle screamed to the high heavens, lamenting long hours of work, telling a tale of soreness and overexertion. He could feel how sunken his eyes must have looked but avoided rubbing them.

Numb to the layers of grit and filth from the coal mine that clung to every surface of exposed skin, his weary calloused hands burned from clutching tools for as long as he had. Still was he clutching them now, carrying his heavy shovel and pickaxe on a shoulder. Part of why “Baron” Callan had hired him—he brought his own tools to work.

The day had been entirely too damned long, he thought. His head hung low, he looked forward to crashing into his creaky old rocking chair, warming up a bowl of beans, taking a bath, and getting a good night’s sleep. Night came fast this time of year, and the day had dragged on into overtime due to a cave-in, setting them back and subjecting the workforce to Callan’s barking admonitions. At least nobody had gotten hurt in the accident.

Sammie’s feet dragged and kicked up tiny clouds as he walked the dusty road back to his home on the edge of Dead End.

His shanty little shack stood amid a copse of trees, just far away enough from the town’s center that he needed not deal with the raucous noise from the saloon or the farrier’s daily toil or other busywork in the rugged frontier town, but not so far away that it made fetching water and supplies too much of a hassle.

He tripped over something, stumbled a few steps, and caught himself before gravity could drag him down. Sammie slowly turned to look at what had snagged his boot.

A linen sack. Sopping wet and dark in color. About the size of a human head.

It took him several moments to register what he was looking at. For the realization to sink in. He lost track of time, oblivious to how long he was standing there, staring at the linen sack, piecing together why his own brain figured it to be the size of a human head, or that the stain in the coarse cloth and on the dirt around it had to be blood.

And then his mind snapped onto a decision. He did what he believed every other conscientious citizen of their fine town should do upon finding a severed head by the roadside on their way home. He kicked it away with full force, cringing at the squelching sound and how little it flew past the shrubs, heavy with fluid, and it flopped unevenly, disappearing awkwardly into the shade of the underbrush.

He had been stealing pennies from Callan and often cheated at cards. He had pissed off plenty of people around town in some of his bouts of drunken aggression, and Sammie did not want to have Sheriff Moody on his ass for accusations of a murder he did not commit.

With a heavy sigh and hoping to leave the severed head behind for wild animals and vermin to claim, he continued his way home.

Only about thirty paces away from his shack, he stopped and groaned, beginning to second-guess and regret what he had just done. If it did draw wild animals, they would be a bit too close to his hut for comfort. And leaving it there for some rascal or dog to find might just make people think he did it either way.

Branches bent and snapped as he hastily dumped his tools by the side of the dirt path and started poking around in the bush where the head in the burlap sack had rolled off to.

Sammie swore up a storm as he searched. The blood drained more and more from his head with every second, a sense of dread forming a knot in his stomach as he could not find it and began to imagine people pointing and laughing while they hanged him from the gallows.

It had not flown far. How in tarnation could he not have found it already?

Glass shattered and metal clattered, and the burst of ruckus stopped him dead in his tracks. Sammie’s head jutted over, and he craned his neck over the edge of the bushes to peer at his shack.

Someone was in there.

The murderer?

He could feel his heart pounding away as it uncomfortably pumped blood through his throbbing chest, digits, and ears. Even his belly pulsed with his festering sense of fear.

Straining his eyes to see inside the darkness behind the small and shoddy windows of his cabin, he could not make out anybody in there. Eagerly awaiting a motion to make itself noticed.

He licked his parched lips and returned to his tools, keeping his eyes trained on his home. He ducked down, pawing at the first wooden shaft his hands found purchase on, then gripped the pickaxe in both hands.

Step by step, careful to not make too much sound as he approached, he drew his axe up high above his head, ready to swing it and kill if need be.

The closer he drew to the shabby front door of his cabin, the more subtle sounds he perceived from inside: scratching, followed by a man’s clipped cough, followed by wooden objects scraping against each other, followed by what sounded like someone smacking their lips—

Sammie arrived by the door. His heart throbbed with such pounding force that it felt like it was trying to escape every orifice, trying to drown out every little noise.

He kicked the door and started swearing once the sensation of the jolt reached his ankle and knee—the door just rattled in its hinges, refusing to yield anything but additional pain in his already sore leg. He lost balance and stumbled away, using the pickaxe to brace himself from falling, skidding across the dirt.

Whoever had invaded his home did not react to his fumbling around outside. Still sounded like someone was eating in there.

Was this rat bastard eating his jerky supplies?

The fury welling up in his gut—being stolen from, being possibly framed for murder, making a fool of himself in failing to kick his own door open, frustrated by the ghoulish foreman and “Baron” at work, being too tired for any of this—somehow eclipsed his fear.

Fuming, Sammie ripped the door open, gripping the pickaxe in one hand, knowing it might as well just scare off the scoundrel to show he could drive the pick right through him if he started messing around.

One step beyond the threshold, he froze.

Faint light from the setting sun poured in through the cabin’s small windows, revealing a cloud of dust motes to be dancing in the rays. The smell of feces and vomit lingered in the air, like someone had dragged the horse trough from outside the saloon into here.

A stranger sat at his table, eating. Eating what looked to be shards of glass in one of Sammie’s wooden bowls. The stranger smacked his lips and the glass crunched between his teeth as he chewed, with rivulets of blood trickling down his chin. He looked like he had once sported a dapper black suit and jacket, like someone far more well off than Sammie—like a businessman from Louisville—but myriads of dark spots and dust marred his attire, like he had been rolling around in the dirt and human refuse.

And his hands were slick and shiny with crimson. His fingers looked way too thin at the tips, all pointy and narrow, mismatched with the rest of his meaty palms.

The stranger met Sammie’s horrified gaze with an air of confounded indifference about him, idly crunching down on the glass being ground down between his teeth. His eerily thin fingertips gingerly grabbed another shard from the pile of broken bottles in the bowl in front of him and guided it to his mouth.

He opened his mouth and revealed a nightmare of blood and shiny jagged bits, teeth painted in black and red.

The pickaxe landing on the floorboards with a heavy thud helped Sammie break out of his trance. All semblance of fatigue had escaped his weary body and he now felt lightheaded, his stomach churning and turning upside down like it needed to expel his meager lunch, and his knees buckled for a split second before he braced himself against the frame of his front door.

The stranger stopped chewing. Swallowed with visible effort and a loud gulping sound to accompany it. Coughed, choked, gurgled. Swallowed again.

He tilted his head and stared Sammie in the eyes. Piercing, unblinking. Uncaring of the blood dripping from his own chin.

“I—”

The glass-eater spoke and coughed. He cleared his throat and coughed again.

“I, too, have discovered, that poring over the secret pages of Doyle, I sometimes feel the distant spirit of God,” said the glass-eater. Blood bubbled from between his lips and stilted his otherwise eerily calm manner of speaking. “On the whole, our questions are quickly eaten by the—by the—”

His words trailed off. His gaze remained fixed upon Sammie, going blank.

“W-who? Who are you?” Sammie finally asked.

He wanted to crouch down and snatch the pickaxe back up, but it was all too weird. The stranger, this glass-eater, had clearly lost his mind, but he was not threatening him in any way. Just sitting there with a calm that did not match the damage he was doing to himself in eating all those glass shards.

The glass-eater blinked, finally, reminding Sammie of a human. His focus returned; his gaze hardened again.

“Who are you?” the glass-eater echoed him, almost mimicking his tone.

Was that a mockery?

Sammie almost shook his head as much as his mind told him that was not the case. The glass-eater had repeated his question more like children learning how to speak by mimicking the words of adults they heard spoken.

He swallowed the dry lump of coal dust and grit and fear that had lodged itself into his parched throat and started thinking differently.

Maybe this glass-eater fellow needed help.

“You don’t look alright, man,” said Sammie. “I can get you a doc. You want me to get you a doc?”

Glass-eater tilted his head the other way and did not answer the question. Instead, without breaking eye contact, he picked up another shard and brought it to his lips, parting them and inserting it into his bloodied jaws.

Crunch, crunch.

“You, uh, you know where you at? This is my home,” Sammie said. “I can get you—I will go get a doc, alright?”

Crunch. Crunch. Dead stare.

“Maybe, uhm, stop eatin’ all that—uh, all that glass?”

Crunch. Staring unbroken.

“I will go find the doc,” Sammie said, walking out of his cabin without turning his back, not daring to turn until he had distanced himself from the door by several slow and careful paces, as one should in the presence of a beast in the wild.

Slowly peeling his gaze from their unnervingly long eye contact, he shot a glance over his shoulder every few steps, making sure that the crazy man still sat there and did not just jump up from the chair and give chase.

Instead, he continued to calmly eat more of the broken glass. With growing distance, Sammie could not hear those blackened teeth crunching down on the shards. He merely heard the haunting echo of it in his mind.

Crunch, crunch. Crunch.

His pace accelerated and he nearly jogged the last bit towards the rows of buildings that constituted Dead End’s main street. Bumped right into someone, nearly falling onto his ass as he stumbled sideways past the next person.

A man in black, standing tall, the powder of the trails sticking to a long duster coat. U.S. Marshal’s star on his belt, two six-shooters slung into holsters hanging from a belt around his hips. A visage featuring a symmetry broken up only by a milky-white eye, framed by a scar speaking volumes of a beast’s claw raking over the lawman’s face.

The marshal’s one good eye scanned Sammie up and down while he caught himself. Sammie nearly soiled his pants right then and there, at the mere thought of all the trouble he might get into if this lawman got on his case and misunderstood the situation somehow. Just find the doctor, now, and—

“What in the hell is wrong with you, son?” asked the marshal with a growl. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

He tipped his hat at Sammie and hooked a thumb into his belt, demonstratively flapping open one side of his coat to display the badge and one of his revolvers.

“O-oh, uh, it's—it’s, uh, it's—uhm, it’s nothin’, sir,” stammered Sammie. “Jus’ lookin’ for a, uh, physician, bit of a personal medical ‘mergency?”

He silently cursed himself for being such a bumbling coward, now of all times. Swallowed another lump stuck in this throat. His heart now pounded as fiercely as it had when he found the severed head.

Shit. The severed head.

Sammie had nearly forgotten about that.

The marshal took a step closer towards him and lowered his voice to what could only be described as a conspiratorial whisper, “Listen, I know there are strange things goin’ on in this town. You lead me to 'em, I oughtta have a shot at fixin’ these things somehow.”

He rolled his jaw and then set it while he awaited a response from Sammie. Sammie’s mind and thoughts however melted into a puddle of worthless soup.

Sammie blurted out the words, “Ah, shit, m-man—uh, I mean, uh—I-I need your h-help, sir.” He then lowered his voice to a desperately pleading hiss. “There’s some crazy man in my house. H-he's—he’s eatin’ glass, man. And talkin’ weird.”

He could get to the head later. Or maybe that would never come up.

Sammie held his breath, ready to soon be staring down the wrong end of one of those revolvers.

Instead, the marshal nodded and ordered, “Show me.”

He led the lawman back down the trail. Noticed a whiff of something dead and rotten about him, leaving him to wonder if something was not off about the marshal, as well. At the very least, Sammie hoped, that might throw him off from noticing a head in the sack out in the bushes nearby. Then he wondered if it was even a human head in there, as he had never bothered to look inside. Then he quietly scolded himself to shut about it already, like he might draw attention to the bloody linen sack if he thought too much about it.

Approaching the cabin, hasty step by step, he expected to find the glass-eater missing and putting him in the predicament of having to explain things. Things like this did not happen. Should not happen.

Some part of him dreamt that this was just a nightmare, and he was about to wake up anytime soon. No such luck, though. His body still ached from the day, the sun set on the horizon, and every step hurt his blistered right heel. It was all too real.

Like a dream, he hoped to cross that threshold and find no sign of the glass-eater. To find everything in its rightful place, to wonder if he was just losing his own damned mind.

But Sammie froze by the door. The stranger still sat there, gingerly picking up another shard of glass, bringing it to those bloodied split lips and the crimson fluids running down his chin in rivulets, and then chewing on the shard.

Crunch, crunch. For some reason, it reminded Sammie of bones now. Like this was the sound that bones made when something ate them. Snapping, cracking, crunching.

Crunch. Crunch.

A calloused hand clapped down on Sammie’s shoulder, tearing him out of this new daze of his. The marshal squeezed his shoulder for a second and then pushed past him, stepping inside the cabin.

“Sir?” the marshal asked. “This your home?”

Even with his back turned to Sammie, the marshal’s presence was imposing. All dressed in black and looking weathered, it was like he absorbed all the remnants of light in these gloomy cramped quarters, like he had a strange inverse halo about him where all light bent and gathered around him.

Crunch, crunch.

The glass-eater tilted his head again, just like he had when speaking with Sammie.

“Yes, of course this is my home,” the stranger spoke, another bubble forming between his tortured lips.

Unfazed by his condition and what all those shards must have been doing to his—in his—

Sammie fought the urge to throw up at the thought. The marshal cast an inquisitive glance over his shoulder, catching Sammie’s gaze. For a moment, he worried if he had to argue about some crazy man walking onto his property and getting other people to testify that this was, in fact his home.

The marshal did not question it, though, instead turned his attention right back to the glass-eater.

“All under the sky is my home, now, as we awaken, sea, by sea,” said the stranger, cementing what the lawman must have instinctively grasped. “You are a child of the mountains. I am the ocean.”

His thin fingers—and only now, somehow, as it grew darker, did it dawn on Sammie what was so off-putting about them—grabbed another shard from the bowl. His fingers looked the way they did because all the skin and nails from their tips had been flayed off somehow. Just bloodied skeletal husks of what they must have been, thinning towards the tips.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“That so?” asked the marshal. He shot another glance at Sammie, his brow arched.

The marshal knew. He understood the insanity of this situation. The madness of that man.

To the glass-eater, he then added, “You touch any… strange objects lately, sir?”

Crunch, crunch.

“You involved on the rail work between here and Louisville?”

Crunch.

The glass-eater tilted his head again. More blood trickled from the corner of his sealed lips. His eyes sparkled with something strange in the dying light.

Crunch.

“You even remember a name anymore?”

Crunch. Crunch, crunch.

The glass-eater grabbed another shard, not breaking eye contact with the marshal.

“My name is the many, and my song is the return. I am the ocean,” he finally replied, putting particular emphasis on the word “am”. It echoed in Sammie’s mind.

The marshal violently expelled air from his nostrils, something in between a sigh and a groan.

“Shit,” he said.

In a flash, loud claps of gunshots pierced the air. The stinging smell of gunpowder soon hit Sammie’s nostrils. The deafening noise startled Sammie, sending him reeling, stumbling backwards, away from the eruptions of muzzle flashes brightly illuminating the gloomy cabin for split seconds. Then another volley of shots ripped, fired from both revolvers, one in each hand of the marshal.

The glass-eater dropped the shard into the bowl and looked down at his chest, now pockmarked with pitch-black bleeding bullet holes. He probed one of the wounds with those skeletal fingertips, almost in disbelief. Not trembling with fear or weakness—no—with a certainty that seemed wholly unnatural.

More thunderclaps, more shots released from the revolvers until both weapons had been emptied through repeated fire. The glass-eater slumped over the table, the wooden bowl with the glass hurtled to the floor where the shards sprayed in every direction with high-pitched clinking, and the stranger stopped moving.

Frozen in shock, Sammie knew not what to do.

Why in God’s name had he just shot the man?

“Too late to save that poor bastard. Too far gone,” the marshal growled, followed by another sigh; almost as if he had read Sammie’s mind and responded to his thought.

The floorboards thumped and thundered, and spurs jingled, as the marshal strode through the narrow cabin’s interior, closing in on the dead body of the glass-eater. He poked him with the smoking barrel of one of his pistols, then used it to lift the lifeless head and ensure the stranger had expired. A veritable vomit of blood poured out from the dead man’s half-open mouth.

Still dumbfounded and with a panic budding deep down, Sammie was only moments removed from running away and looking for help. Because now he feared the marshal again, perhaps far more than ever before.

What if he found the head? Blamed it on him? Blamed glass-eater on him Gunned him down without question? Without trial?

The thoughts circled at the speed of a hundred miles a minute, but they also rooted him firmly in place while the marshal’s eyes scanned Sammie’s meager possessions around the cabin. Then their eyes met again.

“You hold on, sir,” the marshal said, taking a step towards him. “I will get this mess cleaned up, lickety-split. Damn shame he had to ruin your home like that. And I reckon I, uh—I apologize for the holes I put into your back wall.”

He had already holstered the guns, which had happened so quickly that Sammie never registered it. He wanted to back away, but now dreaded seeing those guns flash right back out, giving him the same treatment of judge, jury, and executioner, all in one.

Instead, the marshal dug around in his duster and produced a silver amulet. Its shape looked foreign, odd—not a crucifix, not a locket, not a pocket watch—before he could discern its precise form, the marshal clutched it firmly in his fist and whispered something incomprehensible.

A warm light flared up in the cabin for a split second. The stench of rotten eggs suddenly filled the air, adding to Sammie’s nausea. And he heard something fidget in there, just out of sight. The marshal looked at a corner—focused on something just out of sight for Sammie. He only needed to step inside to follow his gaze, but—

Something held him back. Something in there had appeared out of nowhere, and it unsettled him deeply. Made his mind race even faster, so fast he could not form a single coherent thought.

“You clean up here, alright?” the marshal spoke to whoever was in the corner.

Pause. Scratching sounds.

“No, we will not discuss this now. Just clean it up, and we can bicker later,” the marshal said, responding to seemingly nothing.

Another long pause, more scratching sounds. Someone else was in there. Or something.

The marshal walked outside the front door, paused, swiveled, and closed the door behind him. He cracked a feeble smile at Sammie, something that screamed of dishonesty. Or perhaps pain. Or regret.

Sammie did not know what to do. He had to tell others about this. Get word out. They might think he was crazy, but if the marshal was truly crazier than him and the glass-eater combined, then he might find protection in numbers. Hell, maybe even that useless sheriff might help cover him if the going got rough.

The marshal lifted the amulet to eye height between them and then let it drop. It dangled from its silvery chain and Sammie tried to study it as it swung back and forth.

Up close, it looked like a long, steel cylinder, roughly the length of half his pinky finger. Reddened grooves coiled around it at rhythmically pleasing intervals, and strange symbols etched into the side formed a harmonic pattern all over its surface. The symbols reminded him of arithmetic, for some reason, though Sammie was illiterate.

“Look at the amulet, sir,” said the marshal, his voice now flat and calm. Almost soothing. “Next thing you know, all these worries o’ yours will be wiped away.”

Another flash of light. Next thing Sammie knew, he was walking down main street, in Dead End. No recollection of anything that had just transpired.

His body ached. Every muscle in him complained about the long day of toil behind him. He just yearned to sink into a bath and wash off all the grit and filth from the coal mine. His weary calloused hands burned from clutching the pickaxe and shovel that he carried on his shoulder. His tired gait gained more zest as he veered off to the side, taking the open spot between the buildings and following the dirt path back to his cabin.

The day had been entirely too damn long, he thought. His head hung low, he looked forward to crashing into his creaky old rocking chair, warming up a bowl of beans, taking a bath, and getting a good night’s rest.

Night had somehow come faster than it should have, he reckoned. They had worked late, but he must have been so tired that he did not realize how fast the sun set on his way home.

Must have just been that time of year.

Sammie’s feet dragged and kicked up tiny clouds as he walked the dusty road back to his home on the edge of Dead End.

He did not trip over anything this time. He did not notice anything amiss in his cabin when he plunked down his tools on the table and looked around for some jerky to bite. He went about the rest of his evening. Oblivious to what had happened here earlier.

Something had reached deep inside his mind and scrubbed it clean. No head, no glass-eater, no marshal, no shooting, no talisman. Just some missing time he could explain away.

The marshal’s talisman worked like a charm.

—Submitted by Wratts

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sugako · 5 years ago

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Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader A/N: Reader has been watching hired to watch the Red Hood and finds him at a bar. Warnings: unprotected sex, rough sex, some angst (at the very end) WC: 2282

You spotted that tuft of pure white hair from across the club. He was easy to find anywhere. He had no idea. Only a week ago you had crouched twenty feet above him, peering through the thinnest crack in the floor just to see him pull the mask off. You knew that hair and those strong shoulders. The way his eyes met yours through the sea of people you began to wonder if maybe he did know something. There’s no way. He never saw me. He doesn’t know who I am, no one here does.

Maintaining eye contact, Jason began his slow walk toward you. Rolling your eyes, you spun around in the barstool back toward your drink. Inside, your heart was pounding. No, you thought, it’s just because you’re all dressed up as his dream girl. Pretty, shiny expensive jewelry, perfectly straight, long hair… it’s all fake. He is a son of Bruce Wayne, after all, he has a type. A small tap on your shoulder calmed your wandering mind. Like a mouse bumbling straight into a trap, he came to you. Slowly, you dragged yourself around to face him. “Can I help you?” “You looked lonely, I thought I could help if you like.” His words were slow and sloppy. This was a good time to catch him. You played into the lonely girl ideal he seemed to desire. “My friends have all found someone tonight, so I guess I am. But I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I’m sure you have tons of people lined up for you.” “No,” he answered quick and rough. “No, I don’t have anyone lined up.” You smiled demurely and pulled the sweater that was draped on the stool beside you. “Take a seat then. What’s your name?” “Jason, but you can just call me Jay. What’s yours?” He put an elbow up on the bar and rested his flopping head on top of his fist. You imitated him, and he let out a small chuckle. “I Y/N. What are you drinking, Jay?” “Vodka, straight.” His light blue eyes drilled into yours. The rest of him seemed so gone, but his eyes were so bright. Your lips curled into a tight smile as you flagged down the bartender. “Ma’am, can we have two shots of vodka? On my tab.” She nodded and reached under the bar for the glasses. “Oh my god, no, I’m here to help you not be lonely.” “Mmm, it’s the least I can do for your company.” He grinned like a dope and snatched the glass up from the bar. You copied. Jerking and splashing some of the alcohol over the edge he clinked his glass to yours before you both threw the drinks back. Neither of you winced at the taste. “Would you like to find someone tonight?” He asked, reaching out to place a hand over your thigh. “Ya know, I had my eyes on this amazing looking guy with white and black hair, but now he’s just sitting with a lonely girl at the bar.” He bit his lip. The action shouldn’t have made you inhale as sharply as you did. With painful slowness, he dipped in to whisper in your ear, his lips grazing your skin. “That guy would make her less lonely if she wanted.” Your heart was pounding. Usually, you were more controlled, but there was something about Jason Todd that pushed you. He dragged his face away from yours and kept a tight distance. One of his eyebrows cocked up, asking. “Yeah.” You answered, breathless. “Yeah?” His mouth wound into a grin. Your hand found its way to his stiff, denim jeans and rub hard circles into his muscular thighs. “Yeah.” “Let’s go then, Y/N.” “We can go to my place, it’s just around the corner.” You shot in quickly. He needed to be at your ‘apartment’, the boss had demanded every detail be pristine. Business aside, you were excited. You rushed to pay your tab, as did he, and you dipped out into the night. His strong hand clamped around the small of your back as you led him. You let him take lead with the conversation. “Are from Gotham?” “No, I grew up a little bit outside of the city, went to college out near Central City, and then moved back. What about you?” “Born and raised.” “You’ve probably seen some wild stuff, huh?” He laughed. “You don’t even know.” ��It’s amazing how a city can be so successful yet so on the verge of collapse all the time.” “Bad people doing bad things.” He whispered. The conversation lulled just as you reached the steps to your apartment. You grabbed his hand and dragged him up behind you, pulling out your keys from your purse as you did. It was as if a switch turned on in him. His hands began tracing the outline of your body. He leaned in to wrap his arms around your front in an affectionate embrace. The stiff outline of his cock pressing into your back made you fumble with the keys as the door unlocked. You realized just how much larger he was than you at that moment. The two of you had barely stepped over the entryway before he was slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. Both of you rushed to kiss, not bothering with the lights. Shirts were thrown off as you led him toward the couch. The loud necklace and bracelets you had been forced to wear clattered to the ground. He pressed a knee between your legs and threw you down on it. With one hand he pinned your wrists above your head. Jason straddled your hips and turned his attention to your chest and neck. His mouth found your ear a nipped, making you let out a small squeal. “I know who you are and you know who I am. There’s been a misunderstanding between me and your boss. I will happily explain to him what happened and tell him he doesn’t need to send spies. And you won’t tell him about me.” Your mouth was gaping from shock and lack of breath and your eyes grew twice their size. “How did… you didn’t see me in the warehouse… I was--” “Not well hidden?” He leaned back to look at you. “I won’t tell him if you can make sure he doesn’t kill me. I could lose everything for this. Nothing bad was going to happen to you.” “What did he want?” “To make you feel something and then hurt me so you felt hurt.” He sighed, letting more of his body weight down on you. “You’re not good at being a spy.” “Maybe not, but I’m telling you this because I think you were right to kill that man.” “Hmm,” he smirked, “Nothing to do with how soaked you are right now?” Your words caught in your throat. He got what he wanted and you had failed. “We can finish this conversation later if you want me to help you.” Sound barely escaped your mouth. “Uh-huh.” “Tell me what you want.” He was taunting you now, you could feel it. “I want you to fuck me.” Jason looked around, still taunting. “This couch is a little small for me.” He looked pointedly down at the floor. You sucked in your cheeks, trying to hide the flush of color that rose up in them. Pushing up hard with your thighs you rolled the two of you onto the ground. You straddled his thighs now. Sinking hard you let yourself grind into his hard cock. He sucked in air through his teeth and moaned back out as you unbuttoned your jeans and slid them off. The carpet braided carpet was rough on your knees but you grinded your barely clothed pussy on him. “What do you want, Jason?” You whispered, leaning over to press into him. The thin bralette you had on did little to hide anything and with a little help from his roaming hands, your breasts popped out from the lacey fabric. “I want to hear you scream my name.” “Well that all depends on you.” He groaned and began unbuttoning his own pants with one hand, the other ripping your bra off. “Take that fucking wig off.” He huffed between sharp breaths. “Let me see you.” His hands grasped at the long tendrils of hair that fell to your back. You, with some regret, pulled the glued lace away from your scalp and ripped the wig cap off with it. Jason’s lids lowered and his soft moan turned into more of a growl. Gripping your waist just under your tits he moved you to the ground. He kneeled above you, mouths meeting once again in feverish excitement. He laid between your legs, thick cock straining against his underwear and pressing into your core. His hands kneaded at your chest, tightly pinching your nipples until you cried out. Finally, he leaned back to sit on his heels. Jason pointedly looked down at the large wet spot on his dark boxer briefs. “Look what you did.” You swore his voice was an octave lower now. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Aww, they’re ruined, you should take them off.” You sat up on your elbows and reached out for the waistband. “Oh yeah?” He smiled and eased your hands down to let his cock spring out. As you laid below him, mouth agape, he pulled the underwear down the rest of the way. He was large. Much larger than anyone you had been with recently. A drip of precum slid over the edge of his tip. “My eyes are up here, princess.” It was impossible to tell whether the nickname or the joke made you heat up a little more. You tried to keep yourself composed as your eyes dragged up his chiseled body to meet his eyes. He was lean, but every muscle was so well defined. “I know.” You answered coyly. Jason dipped back down to trail long kisses down your neck and chest. He kept going down until he was mouthing over your clothed cunt. “Uhh, Jason, I want…ah, I want you…” “What do you want?” He peered up. You couldn’t answer as he roughly pulled down your soaked panties. His expert tongue lapped against your dripping center. Calloused fingers found his way into you. “Shut up, just fuck me.” You gasped for air. Jason grinned and put a hand on either side of your head. He leaned in close, nose to nose. “You wanna get on your knees?” His tone was not questioning. Still, the softness in his eye betrayed the commanding tone. You nodded, unable to answer coherently. Wanting all of this and all of him you kissed him hard and slow. He gently moved a hand under you to help as you turned yourself over. You propped yourself up on your hands and knees, getting more excited with every second. The carpet dug deeper into your knees. His hands clamped onto your hips and dragged you toward him. He gave one and then another hard smack to your ass. Each time you cried out in ecstasy. “Jason…” You moaned. He responded by lining up his tip with your entrance. He ran his cock through your slick folds, teasing. You clit throbbed impatiently. Involuntarily, your hips wiggled back, attempting to get the message across to him. He slapped you again. Just as you were about to bemoan his teasing, he slid inside of you in one go. A strangled gasp clawed its way out of your throat. “Fuck, you’re big.” You sighed. You did your best to relax as he thrusted harshly, but it was nearly impossible to not clamp down around him. He continued pounding into you. Every time his cock slide in and out a small gasp escaped your mouth. You sounded like am overdramatic porn star at this rate. Jason’s name was on your lips like a chant. He reached underneath while still pounding into you to play with that sensitive bundle of nerves. You were already so dripping and swollen it didn’t take much of his feather-light touch to send you over the edge. “Jason!!!” You cried. “Just a little bit longer.” He grunted, your moans and twitches sending him close to the edge. “Yes, please, cum inside of me!” You had just barely come down from your own high, slumping further down into the floor, when his hips began to snap jaggedly. Knees, raw and near bloody, started to wobble to keep you upright. He pulled out abruptly. Before you could cry out in protest he flipped you over and entered you faster and harder. Jason’s eyes were clouded with lust as they bore into yours. His face was flush and glistening. He slowed and sped up once again finally cumming into you with a low deep moan. After a moment he laid down upon you, breathing hard. He slid his limp cock out of you. The cum seeped out of you, mixing with your own juices. He just barely propped himself up and reached down to your sensitive pussy and dragged two fingers up it. His hand came up to your mouth. You happily obliged, sucking the salty-sweet mix the two of you had created. Jason let his hand fall from your mouth and rolled off you. The two of you laid there, unsure of what to do or say next.

“I’m sorry for spying on you. I won’t tell, that would only get people hurt. I don’t want to hurt people.”

“We all end up hurting people. No matter what.”

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #jasontodd #jasontoddxreader #jason toddxreader #dc #jason todd imagine #x reader #dc x reader #dc imagine #batman #bat family #robin #red hood x reader

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cialbi · 4 years ago

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Boy with Hope: Lavender - Chapter Three

Summary: Severely depressed and addicted to alcohol, you had given up entirely on life. Your passion was gone, your friends had left you and you found yourself completely alone. As you closed your eyes for the last time, the smell of lavender wafted through your nose and a boy with purple wings appeared above you.

Genre: Angst, Romance, Fantasy

Pairings: Angel Hoseok x Reader

Warnings: Language, Depression, Alcoholism, Future Smut

⤎Previous

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The bell over the door of Martin’s Liquor Store jingled softly when you stepped inside, your leg trailing a few inches behind the other as you limped on your injured knee.

All that running like a speed-demon had really taken it out of you, so you gave yourself a second to catch your breath. Your knee was almost numb with pain, and now that the adrenaline had worn off, you were feeling the repercussions in full. The withdrawal symptoms were making you woozy, and you found it hard to keep your focus as you skimmed the shop from left to right.

It smelled steryl, like someone had washed the floors with peroxide, and the blinding white of the fluorescent lights reminded you of the long hallways of a hospital. The space was filled with rows upon rows of alcohol that lined tall vinyl shelves, and the white concrete walls were covered up in advertisement posters for different kinds of brand name booze. Aside from the handful of red-aproned shopkeepers milling about the store, it was completely empty inside. They’d probably just opened.

Guess it was only you who shopped for alcohol at 8:00am in the morning.

The red-haired guy behind the counter looked up from his phone and shot you an odd look, eyes wandering up and down your filthy-clothed, barefoot body, and suddenly you felt very much in your role as the crazy alcoholic. You could only imagine how wild you appeared as you sweated in your soiled white-t and over-worn sweatpants. Smoothing your hair unhelpfully, you sent him a meek smile which he didn’t return. With a downward tug to your lips, you dismissed him quickly, pushing past his inquisitive stare and focused your attention on the task at hand.

You were here for one thing.

And that was not a fashion contest.

There wasn’t much time before those two cross-wearing loons caught up to you, so you knew you had to move fast. You swallowed, remembering the intent, predatory look in the other guys eyes. If he were the one to catch you, you had a feeling he wouldn’t be as nice as Hoseok, because Hoseok was at least a kind psychopath. The thought of what a scary psychopath might do to you made you concentrate.

Wine, wine, wine, where is it? Rocking on the balls of your feet, you scanned the aisles for your poison of choice: red wine.

There was something about red wine in particular that attracted you; perhaps it was the calming, musky smell, or the way it made you feel warm and giddy. Maybe it was the velvety texture on your tongue, or the brisk and tangy aftertaste it left in your mouth. Maybe it was the way your cheeks boiled in a delightful flush, burnishing the edges of life and enveloping you in a false sense of contentment.

Or maybe it was because, red wine was the drink that popped your alcohol cherry.

It was at a thanksgiving party where you had had your first taste. You had just turned eighteen, so your mom had allowed you to drink with the rest of the grownups that year, pouring you that half-glass of red wine that would be the start to your never-ending sob story. Every alcoholic had a vice and yours was the fruity red liquid that felt like hugs in your stomach.

Inhaling strongly, you could practically smell the scent of fermented grape.

Your throat itched with thirst.

A soft touch to your shoulder had you jump in your skin. You whirled around expecting to see Hoseok and his black-haired friend, but instead were met with the concerned, freckle-spattered face of one of the shop attendees. “Can I help you find something, ma’am?” He was the nice, helpful-sort of guy, maybe a little nerdy, but he had a comfortable look to his appearance that made him seem approachable.

“S-sorry…” You managed to stutter, averting your gaze to the clean tiled floor. “I’m looking for the red wine.”

The man pinched his lips together, examining you intently as if he were debating whether or not to accomplice you in your destructive mission. After a moment, he sighed and pointed to the back of the store at a laminated sign that read “WINE” hanging from the ceiling.

You thanked him quietly and limp-scurried down the aisles.

Their wine section was vast. Nearly two giant cases were lined with the more expensive bottles, and big wicker baskets were spread across the floor, filled to the top with the cheaper bottles. You usually went for the cheaper stuff; the bottles were bigger and they gave you a stronger buzz, so you knelt down besides the closest basket and picked up the first bottle you saw; Apothic Red Blend, only $9.47.

Sounds toxic.

Perfect.

As you began to stand and make your way to the register, you noticed something off about the bottle you chose. A tiny splotch towards the bottom swayed subtly from within, a few shades too dark compared to the crimson color of the wine. Knitting your brows, you scrunched back down and investigated, holding it close to your face as you squinted into the depth of red. There was something inside.

Squinting even harder, the bottle was practically touching your eyeball as you tried to figure out what it could be. What is that? A bit of cork maybe? It looked a little big to be a bit of cork. A grape, maybe?

You whirled the bottle, trying to get a better look at the little piece of something that was floating around inside. A coin-sized object swirled in circular motions amidst the rapids you created; it was shiny and brown like a giant coffee bean, perfectly ovular with two little... tails? No...wait... were those...?

Hairs?

Your heart began to pound against your chest. What the actual flip!? What kind of store sells booze with hairy grapes?

You looked even closer. No those aren’t hairs...

They’re fucking antenna!

With a screech, you threw the bottle from your hands and sent it crashing against the floor; glass smashed to smithereens and red liquid splattering across white tile.

It was a bug.

No, it was a fucking cockroach.

Your absolute worst fear.

Staring repulsively at it’s belly-up carcass, you wondered how in the hell a cockroach could have gotten inside a concealed wine bottle. It would have had to have gotten there before they corked the top, which begged the question of whether it could have fit through the tiny opening at all. And further matter, did cockroaches even like alcohol? They were disgusting creatures who ate absolutely anything, but this was a new one.

You gagged, creating some distance. Thank god it’s at least dead.

Shuddering, you reached for another bottle, ignoring the roused murmurs of the shopkeepers as they were no doubt wondering what had just happened. The situation maybe have looked bad, but in your defense, there shouldn’t be revolting creatures floating around in their products in the first place. You’d complain to them in a moment.

Reasserting your purpose for being here, grabbed another bottle from the basket. Your fingertips only just touched the second bottle before you shrieked, and threw that one as well. This time, not just one, but a whole stream of cockroaches flooded out from the shattered glass--some of their thin, icky legs still twitching with life. Falling back on your ass, you scooched away from the massive horde of insects. What the fuck was going on? Why are all these bottles filled with bugs?

Opening your mouth to call for help, a little tickle on your index finger caught your attention and you swallowed your words. Stomach dropping, you slowly rotated your neck to look down at your hand and whimpered. You did everything in your power to gulp down the screams that were crawling up your throat as you watched a monstrous-sized roach worm its way between your fingertips, its slimy-smooth antennas poking its way over your flesh.

Oh fuck no!!!

Like a bat out of hell, you flailed your arm to shake it off, using your other hand to rub frantic lines at your skin until it turned a raw pink. When it was finally off your person, you sighed a breath of relief, placing your palm over your chest, and exhaled slowly in attempts to appease your heightened pulse.

It’s gone now Y/N. Everything’s ok, everything’s ok.

It’s gone.

After a second, more tickling sensations began to creep up your legs, forcing you to look down at your feet.

You nearly puked chunks everywhere.

They were brown. Your legs were brown.

An icky, coackroachy-brown.

“EEEEEEEK OH MY GOD!” You squalled, kicking your feet up and smashing several more bottles from the shelves and wicker baskets.

They were so completely covered in cockroaches that you couldn’t even see the grey of the bottom half of your sweatpants anymore. Their intsy legs squirmed, crawling further and further up until they were nearly to your thigh. Desperately, you tried to brush them off, but they just kept appearing, continuing their charge up your legs and well past your hips. You tried and tried, shrieking like a banshee on crack, but there was too many of them to count!

Where the frackity-frick did all these mother-loving demons come from??

A meager chirp came from behind your ear, causing you to cease your distressed movements and turn your head to look at your shoulder. A lone roach had perched comfortably next to your neck, its stringy arms were crossed as it rubbed them together, signaling to its troops down below. Your scream pierced through the entire store as you began thrashing uncontrollably, dispelling bug after bug from your body, but it was no use.

“GET THEM OFF ME!” You cried, as tears of dread began to roll down your cheeks.

“Ma’am, are you ok?” A red-aproned chest with the liquor store's name appeared from above you. You couldn’t see his face, but assuming it was one of the shopkeepers you reached out and grabbed his sleeved arm perilously.

You clenched your eyes shut, squeezing more tears from your lids. “Get them off me!” You blubbered. “Don’t you see them!? There are cockroaches everywhere! Please help me!”

“Cockroaches? What cockroaches?”

Your eyes snapped open. About to tell him off--how the flipping-fuck could he not see the colossal amounts of cockroaches that were expeditiously consuming you??--you lift your chin to meet his face and howled so loud the windows shook.

He was caped in the creepy, diseased-filled fuckers.

Brown blobs were trickling out from beneath his clothes, his hair, his ears, and one even poked out from the socket of his eyelid before crawling down his face and back into his mouth. It was some grade-A horror movie shit and you were not handling it like a pro.

“No! Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” You screeched, shoving him so hard that he lost balance and flew back into the shelves of expensive wine bottles, toppling it over completely. Glass soared through the air like pellets of hail as bottled after bottle smashed against the hard marble tile.

“Miss, please! You have to calm down!” Two more shopkeepers came running up from different aisles and caged you like a rabid animal.

“There are no cockroaches!” The second one said. “Please, calm down!”

What are these idiots talking about! They’re right there, they’re right--

You peeked an eye open, but, as they had said, there were no cockroaches. The floor was flooded with wines of different colors, brown and green shards of broken glass covered most of the aisle and the toppled shelf lay like an overturned grave on its back. But not a roach in sight. Gasping aloud, you sprang into a sitting position and patted yourself down frantically, finding that your body was completely insect-free, just incredibly drenched in fruity booze.

“They were right here!” You exclaimed in disbelief. With panicked eyes you looked up to meet two very concerned, and very bewildered, faces. “You have to believe me!”

They exchanged questioning glances, then returned their focus on you. Looks of pity crossed their faces as they watched you like you were the saddest part of a tragic movie.

A third shopkeeper was hunched over next to the guy you had pushed into the shelves, looping an arm around his neck to help him stand upright. The poor man groaned. It was the freckle-faced shopkeeper that had previously directed you to the wine section. Glass was poking out from his mop of curly hair and blood streamed down his arms and face, so much so that you couldn’t tell what was blood and what was freckle. He did look horrifying, like one of those performers from a haunted house, but definitely not covered in cockroaches.

Guilt flooded you as you took in his injured form, knowing you were the one responsible for his condition. Your eyes flicked between all of four of them, stumbling over words as you tried to process what just happened.

“I-I’m sorry... I... There were... I didn’t mean...I swear....” You skipped between sentences, the severity of the situation draping over you like a wet blanket.

From the front of the store you could hear the bell of the shop door opening. Quick footsteps were followed by the sounds of low voices conversing between one another--probably the red-haired guy and the police, you assumed--but you couldn’t make out the words that they were saying.

The footsteps grew louder as you sat there staring, mouth hanging open stupidly, not knowing what else to say, and then suddenly you felt yourself being lifted up off the ground by a pair of warm, jewelry-clad arms.

“No! Please! I didn’t mean to! Let me go!” You squirmed, but a gentle hand kept you in place.

“Calm down Y/N. You’re safe. I got you now.” The gentle voice of Hoseok ghosted your ears, and for the first time you were so happy to hear him speak.

“The cockroaches... I swear they were...What’s going on?” You sniveled, squeezing your eyes shut as you burrowed your face into his neck. He smelled sweet, like lavender.

“Not now.” His tone was soft, soothing. “Just rest.”

You felt a scorching heat encompass your body. It was like a fiery embrace that wrapped you up in a sense of security and caused your mind to lull. Muscles relaxing, you sank into the inviting warmth of Hoseok, letting all pent up exhaustion finally overtake you.

Then, the world went black.

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Next⤏

A/N

Sorry this one is a little short as well! I’m going to try and make the chapters longer from here on out!

Thank you to everyone who has commented, reblogged and liked my story so far! It means so much to me and keeps me inspired to keep writing this fiction! I really appreciate it!

And by the way, I go back and edit each chapter on a regular basis, so make sure to check in to those as well!

Cial

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 6 years ago

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after-after party

word count: 4.7k

content: smug harry, banter, and softcore smut (a handjob but a pretty decent handjob hehee)

///

Y/N can tell he’s struggling to get back on his feet. After getting that shit-faced, it’s practically a miracle he made it up the stairs to his condo without getting intimate with the floor. “Thank you.”

or Harry’s a hungover mess post-Met Gala and Y/N’s his helping hand (in more than a metaphorical sense)

///

Harry didn’t think he was that drunk.

Despite only having been able to see somewhat clearly from one eye, not having any feeling on the left side of his face, the absence of sturdiness in his knees, and the dead weight of what he assumed to be his tongue choking him anytime he tried to talk, he still hadn’t thought he was that drunk.

Maybe fifty percent drunk, at most.

That percentage rose a few notches when he had arrived home, half-stumbling and half-waddling into his and Y/N’s bedroom to come upon her watching a rerun of one of the Avengers movies.

That number had then risen slowly, and then all at once.

It begun nudging upward after he greeted his girlfriend. The words that had sewn together in his syrupy mind had been something along the lines of, “Hi, darling. How’s the movie?”

What came out of his mouth was a slurred, garbled mess of syllables and noises that sounded like he was gargling nuts and bolts.

His self-recognized drunk percentage teetered higher when he tried to initiate a bit of a Met Gala after-after party.

As he remembers it, Harry begun by sitting on the edge of the bed and oh-so gracefully sliding himself up beside Y/N, draping an arm across her hip as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of her neck, right on the spot that is usually the kill-switch to making her cum.

But according to Y/N’s retelling of the situation, Harry had instead tripped over his shiny, jet-black heeled boots, landed like a punching bag right on top of her, and then proceeded to drool onto the side of her neck while trying to push himself up onto his elbows (“quite unsuccessfully,” she adds).

But the event that had skyrocketed his awareness of just how utterly, embarrassingly sloshed he had truly been was something both of them recalled rather explicitly.

Apparently, Y/N’s insistent badgering and deflections of his suggestive touches hadn’t been enough for Harry. She had been adamant on how hammered he was and he had kept dismissing her, saying that he wasn’t that bad off and that, “I’m sober enough to make you cum!”

But he was quickly shut down, betrayed by his own body. In a spur of movement in which he had stalked around the room trying to prove his sobriety to Y/N, his stomach had given an angry lurch at the abrupt disturbance and decided to put a stop to his antics with the reappearance of the two grilled cheese sandwiches he’d had an hour prior.

Then to finish off his ridiculous circus act, his knees agreed to fully give out, resulting in Harry crumpling to the ground like rag doll.

That is the last of what he remembers— keeling over and puking all over his new vintage Indonesian rug, and then face-planting the puddle.

Saying he’s disgusted with himself is an understatement. At this point, it’s edging more towards absolute self-loathing because he not only made a complete fool of himself, but had then condemned Y/N to clean up the mess. All at four in the fucking morning.

Not to mention the collateral damage— his outfit.

Unless he can convince the world that a giant milky patch of half-digested cheese and tequila is the newest fashion rave, Alessandro was going to kill him. And then Harry Lambert was going to dance on his grave.

The dry-cleaners will have to work a bloody miracle.

Now, eight hours later, he sits bare in his large marble bathtub, legs drawn up to his chest with his back hunched slightly forward as Y/N uses the detachable shower head to rinse out his hair.

He’s trying awfully hard to ignore the hollow thumping of his heartbeat slamming against the inside of his skull, closing his eyes tightly and taking in deep, penetrating breaths that taste faintly of lemon vodka and heavily of regret. He shouldn’t have gone so hard, so fast. It was borderline moronic.

After he knocked out onto the ground, Y/N— an angel in the flesh— had picked him up and settled him into the bed, striping him down to his briefs and wiping him clean with a wet towel as best as she could while he blabbed unconscious nonsense about what colors he’d picked for his nails and how the bow tie he’d worn made him look like Mickey Mouse.

She’d had to work fast with the rug and managed to get out the stain after a load of scrubbing and a whole bottle of Bissell carpet cleaner. By the time she extended the ornament out over the edge of the balcony to dry, it was ten minutes past five in the morning and her arms were limp as noodles.

Y/N was too exhausted to drag Harry out of bed and into the shower then, so she had just called it quits and would worry about the damage control in the morning. It’s not like he couldn’t afford new sheets.

Her voice fishes him out of his dazed thoughts, the alcohol trip corrupting her gentle words into dull gritting and popping sounds that cause him to instinctually wince. He turns his chin slightly more towards her, streams of the bathroom’s bright white lights forcing their way past the strings of dark hair covering his eyes and stinging his vision.

“What was that?” His own voice comes out as a low, jumbled rasp.

Y/N coasts her fingers into his sopping wet roots, gently massaging his scalp and the shell of his ears before carefully pulling back the curtain of wet hair hiding away his face. “I said, ‘pass me the shampoo, please.’”

“Oh...” Harry stretches out a rusty arm, his joints cracking in defiance. Opening his fingers feels like trying to pry open a set of metal doors, and carrying the small Bumble and Bumble shampoo bottle back towards his girlfriend’s awaiting grasp feels like taking on a hundred pound weight. “Here y’go.”

Harry nods robotically, tense shoulders drawing in again as he crosses his arms just below the curve of his kneecaps, back hunching forward a bit further than before. His forehead plops down against his forearms, temples pulsing in pain at the smallest motion. “God, I’m never drinking again.” Y/N scoffs in amusement, shaking her head lightly. “That’s what you said last time...and the time before that.” “Well, this time I mean it.” “You said that, too.” Harry cranes his stiff neck to face her, hair flopping over to the opposite side as he narrows his eyes pointedly. “You’re not helping here, love.” “You deserve some scolding.” She reasons with a dismissive shrug of her brows, popping open the cap of the plastic bottle and spilling a decent amount of transparent, sunflower-yellow goo into the palm of her hand. He sighs shakily and releases a boyish laugh. “I suppose I do.” Y/N starts working her digits through his matted locks, watching suds build up over the natural amber highlights strewn across the woodsy brown. The familiar scent of chamomile fills her lungs as well as his and they both take it in like a warm hug, laughing gently at the deep breaths they’d inhaled in unison. A honeyed, almost inaudible mumble catches her ears all of the sudden. “Thank you.” She glances down from where her gaze was focused on watching her fingers work around the little spiral from which his hair sprouts atop his head, catching her boyfriend’s stare. Harry’s looking at her over his naked broad shoulder, faintly-stubbled chin pressed against the cursive “g” tattoo he has for his sister. His forearms flex as he tightens them around his knees, shifting over just a smidge more towards her so he does not have to strain his neck as much.

His muted jade eyes hold a awed, tender demeanor— one that communicates how grateful he is to have her here helping him.

Y/N’s lips twitch with a small caring smile. “Of course, sweetheart. Anytime.”

She pauses her movements for a second, fingers staying perched on his scalp before she sways her head from side to side, mulling her statement over, and then scrunches up her nose in an afterthought. “Just not all the time, yeah?”

Harry snorts himself into a wave of bellyful laughter, lips spreading into a delighted grin against the skin of his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the edges, the two little moles on the side of his chin twitching. “I promise I’ll keep myself in check.”

“You better.” Y/N states in a cautionary tone, yanking at his bubbly curls in a playful warning. A low hiss streams from his tinted lips as his head is snaps backwards, one eye winking shut at the faint pain. He slowly lulls his head forward again, letting it hang for a moment before looking back at her over his shoulder. “I actually quite liked that.” He murmurs in a sultry tone, shrugging his eyebrows suggestively and hiding a lascivious smirk by pressing it into his damp skin. “Might have to be more reckless just to get some more of that.” Y/N huffs, quirking one of her brows ominously while turning on the shower-head and clicking it into the pulse setting. “Won’t be that gentle.” “Oh, I’m praying for it, pet.” Her eyes give a quick flash upwards to lock with his as they sheen a bright juniper green to emphasize his cocky challenge, the glossiness of his irises dancing with the fluorescent lights of the washroom. “Just shut up and move over here so I can rinse you out.” “Yes, ma’am.” There’s an unmistakable arrogance to the snarky remark. The sounds of his skin rubbing against the surface of the elegant tub bounce off the walls of the room as Harry shifts onto his knees and rectifies his back, turning side to side from the waist up in order to work out the knot at the bottom of his spine. Y/N pretends to be fiddling with the temperature knob to avoid looking below the curve of his bare hip. He moves closer to the edge, pressing the palms of his hands down against the rim with the intention of showing off by flexing his arm muscles. He tilts his head to the side expectantly, eyes half-lidded with a type of self-assured smugness that grates her nerves in unexplainably tempting ways. Y/N scoots closer on the porcelain toilet cover, pushing his hair back as it limps over his forehead, wiping suds away before they get in his eyes. She lifts the hose and rids his chest of bubbles, well aware of her fingertips dragging over the slippery silkiness of his skin as they pass over the wings of his bird tattoos and tickle the antennas of the butterfly on his tummy. Harry’s voice comes out in the form of a melodic hum, with an undertone that hints at a moan. “I like it when you take care of me.” Y/N keeps herself focused as the water washes away the soap from his collarbones and neck. The puff of his velvet words is warm against her left temple. “I like it when you baby me like this. Love it, actually.” She washes down his shoulders and arms, palm following suit to make sure everything goes down the drain— the sweat, body wash, alcohol, and— just maybe— her inhibitions. “Get down.” The phrase is a simple command so she can rinse his hair without making a mess of the floor, but it’s strained with something else. She’s barely holding herself together, but wants to make him work for it. Harry teeters forward on his palms, warm nose bumping her’s and tracing down her sensitive jaw, resulting in her thighs clenching. He gazes up at her with owlish, innocent eyes clouded with lustful neediness and a dab of that post-drunken egoism which tends to adhere to him. “You want me to go all the way down?” His response holds anything but the literal meaning, and she knows it. He definitely knows it, seen in the way a simper ghosts over his puffy lips. Y/N dismantles his advance. “Just a little so I can wash your hair.” Harry’s shoulders droop, pout evident as he obeys. “You’re no fun.” Her throat thrums with an entertained laugh as she douses his curls thoroughly, finger-combing the shampoo out of them. “I’m plenty fun. Just not when you’re hungover.” “I’m not even that hungover!” Harry argues adamantly, rolling his slightly bloodshot eyes. “You literally almost dropped the shampoo bottle, H. You’re very hungover.”

“That’s in the past!”

“That was five minutes ago!”

“And now I’m a changed man.”

Y/N’s laughing freely now as she finishes up getting him nice and clean, turning off the faucet and hanging the shower-head on its designated metal hook. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Focus yourself a little more and I definitely believe you’ll find something hard.”

“God, you’re so crude.” Y/N exclaims, crossing her arms incredulously. “Why do you get so fucking horny when you’re hungover, huh? Normal people get grouchy and don’t leave the bed all day. You get a hard-on and three times your usual stamina. You’ve got to get that checked.”

“I just bounce back faster than everyone else. I tend not to question that gift.”

“Well, you marinate in that gift and finish washing up everything else while I go get you a warm towel from the dryer.” Y/N goes to stand up, but is halted by Harry phasing her out to it.

He’s upright on his knees in an instant, big hand wrapped around her wrist as his eyes crackle with stubborn persistence. “No, you’re going to strip off your pajama shorts and sit on my cock.”

She drags her sight down his wet body, taking in the way his tattoos glint under the lightning of the bathroom, the droplets of water rubbing down his muscles enticing her to feel them against her skin. A little further down, she follows his happy trail down from his belly button to the dip of his pelvic bones to the base of his cock, where it’s covered with neatly trimmed coarse dark hair. That’s all she can see before the side of the black glossy bathtub cuts off her view, but she can tell he’s hard by the way his abdomen tints red and tightens under her intense gaze.

Y/N lets out a quick sigh, turning back to face him fully and putting on her most authoritative voice. “Fine, we’ll make a deal. I give you a handie, you finish washing up and let me dry and dress you. Then we’ll get some food in your stomach and then...we’ll see. Sound like a bargain?”

Harry’s quick to agree, releasing her hand and scrambling to get some traction in the slippery shower. He’ll take anything to get rid of the raging boner pressing against the side of the cold tub. “Yes, deal. Deal, deal, deal.”

“Good. Alright, up then. Where’s the lube?”

“Bottom drawer on the right.”

In a few seconds, Y/N is pressed up against Harry’s body (trying to ignore the fact that he’s getting her pajamas wet) as he stands inside the tub, her hand jerking him off firm and steady whilst her lips seer dirty promises into the pounding pulse of his neck.

“Fuck, you’re hard.” Her astonished whisper is hot again his throat, mouth grazing his Adam’s Apple as she swipes her thumb over his leaking tip, massaging small circles all around the head, just how he likes it. He’s all shades of dark red, light violet, and faint blue, not to mention veiny. “T-Told you.” Harry’s voice is tight with pent up sexual desperation, one hand reaching above to grip the pole that holds the shower curtain as the other finds a spot on the glittery tiled wall. Y/N’s hand wanders down lower, scooping his balls and rolling them around her fingers, feeling out how swollen they are. “And you’re full, too.” She teases under her breath, trailing little kisses up the center of Harry’s throat and across his chin. “Heavy.” All Harry can do is nod his head feverishly and try to tame his bucking hips, eyelids melting shut as he attempts to reign in some form of composure. Y/N tuts in a jesting manner, nibbling on the spot just below his ear, making sure to avoid his fresh piercing. “You poor baby... How long have you been like this?” Harry swallows thickly, eyes flickering open only to be matched with her plump, mocking pout and taunting stare. His words are glue in his throat as he forces them out. “S’been bubbling in the pit of my stomach since I got home. Started to boil over when you kept scratching at my scalp and massaging my ears.” Y/N gives his thick cock a rough tug, drawing a broken yelp from his vocal chords, accompanied by a soft, shaky, “Fuck, s’good...” “You’re like a teenager— wanna bang all the time.” Y/N smirks in amused disbelief, marking a love bite onto the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Harry tilts his chin down to lock eyes with her, blinking sluggishly as his lips tremble with desire. His voice is tender and sheepish as he speaks, almost as if he’s afraid of getting chastised. “Is it so bad that I need you that way?” Y/N watches as he ducks down and knits their mouths together, tasting burning longing spill over her tongue. Her face stings. “Is...” Harry’s slick locks dangle over his sparkling darkened eyes, tickling the tops of her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose as he suckles her bottom lip almost frantically. “Is it so bad that I like feeling you all snug around me while I whimper into your mouth?”

“Suppose s’not.” Y/N reaches up and winds a fistful of his damp hair around her fist, bringing him in for a kiss so deep, it leaves her gasping for air. He tastes like lemon vodka and intoxicating eagerness. Harry, being the little shit that he is, pulls back from the kiss until only his Cupid’s Bow is brushing over her’s, edges of his lips jolting intp an open-mouthed cheeky grin. She tries to go back in but he yanks himself just far enough that their skin barely touches. He wobbles his head in a shake, chuckling smugly. “S’what you get for slut-shaming me.” “You do realize I have your cock in my hand, right?” Y/N grits out, eyes zoned in on his plush, pink mouth, wanting it back on her’s immediately. “Yeah, but we had a deal, remember? You have to make me cum. Means I can have a little fun, if I want to.” “Also means I can edge you until you’re begging for it.” She counters swiftly. Harry takes his lower lip beneath his two front teeth, denying her point with a low, “mm-mm.” “What’s that?” Y/N twists her wrist and thrives at the way his breathing hitches. “You wouldn’t do that to me. I’m a poor, hungover baby, remember?” He’s pulling every string like it’s his job, batting his long lashes and daring her to be cruel. “Asshole.” “I prefer you play with my cock instead, but to each their own.” Y/N picks up her pace, focusing on long, quick strokes. Each time she reaches the base, she twists, and every time she reaches the head, she squeezes right below it. The new rhythm has the railing above their heads creaking under Harry’s strength. She trails her mouth across the 1957 tattoo imprinted into the dip of his right collarbone, staining the ink maroon with her teeth. His chest is heaving excessively, almost enough that she thinks the swallow tattoos might catch flight. He’s making tiny, cracked whines in the back of his throat, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching so tight she can see the bone structure shifting. Y/N sinks her teeth into the hard knot of muscle on his shoulder, basking in the labored little, “Fucking hell...” Harry squeezes out.

When she pulls back, the ring of teeth marks is already a deep purple-red, leaving behind a memory of the Met Gala that he’ll have on him for weeks. The fist Harry has against the wall had fallen numb from how hard he’s pressing into the smooth surface, knuckles white with exertion and wrist quivering under his vigor. His entire arm is flexing, veins chiseling in and out of view as Y/N phantoms her fingers down the center of his forearm, following the seems. The hand working his cock hasn’t lighted up one bit. “Are you gonna cum for me?” Her gaze flickers from his body to his eyes, lashes fluttering luringly. The pole holding the shower curtain groans. “Fuck, yes.” Her mouth sneaks its way into the curve behind his ear, blowing warm air across one of his soft spots and kissing it slow and sensually. “Gonna make a mess for me?” Harry’s head lulls back into the palm of her hand, throat straining with the weight. His eyes fall shut, jaw unhinging a bit as to let a low rumble loose. “Y-Yeah— wanna...wanna show you how good you make me feel.” The water streaming down from his hair—across his ears and down the back of his neck— feels like her caressing touch and it sends his nerves knee-deep into a frenzy. Y/N moves her exasperatingly sweet lips over the exposed center of his jugular, humming a gentle giggle as she sponges a trail of wet pecks down from the area just beneath his jaw to the dip of his chest. Every brush of her mouth is like a grenade going off, burying him further beneath a mound of pleasure that he knows will blow any second. Harry’s locked in place, legs stiff enough to keep him from collapsing on to the floor of the tub. All of his energy is concentrated at the pit of his tummy, radiating a type of boiling warmth that is becoming too much to bear. He can feel his eyes have rolled back into his head, composure too gone for him to even attempt to chain himself back down. His words feel detached from his mind, mouth moving on its own as he begs and pleads for her to finish him off. His keens and whimpers fill the echoey tiled room and there’s a certain tension in the air that simulates the pin to a bomb. All Harry’s body is waiting for— jittering with bottled up euphoria— is for Y/N to pull it. What she says next sets him off.

“The sooner you cum, the sooner you’ll get to feel me bounce on your cock.”

Just as the words finishing sliding down Y/N’s tongue, she feels his cock give a foreshadowing twitch in her cupped fingers, and then a sudden warmth erupts across the thigh she has propped between his knees. The ball at the bottom of his stomach bursts in a kaleidoscope of colors behind his eyes, dissolving into chords of lightning that bristle along every nerve ending under his skin, from the heels of his feet to the tips of his fingers to the curve of his ears. All sound around him goes warbley for a millisecond, and when his eardrums come to, the first noise caught is Y/N’s voice full of angry annoyance. “I meant make a mess of yourself, not me!” Harry splutters into a round of drunken, spaced-out laughter as he swings his head back forward, cheeks tinted a gentle rose, eyes scrunching with amusement. His tone is playfully defensive. “You said to cum and I did!” “You’re lucky I’m wearing shorts...” She grumbles, jerking her hand away from where her fingers are tangled into the locks behind his head. His hair is somewhat dry already, the definition of his natural curls surfacing, bouncing lightly as his shoulders shake with glee. Y/N folds out a neat wad of toilet paper and scrubs the milky substance from her thigh, chucking it into the trash bin and throwing him a glare. “Gross.” “Oh, shut up!” Harry uncurls his stiff fingers from the curtain pole above his head and dramatically sweeps his other hand from the wall, letting both arms fall crossed before his naked chest— which is still somewhat heaving. He cocks his head to the side, eyes reflecting slyness as he gives her an arrogant side-smirk. “I don’t see you complaining when you’re begging for it down your throat.” She ignores his sarcastic (although accurate) dig, socking him straight on the “a” tattoo on his left shoulder. “I fucking hate you.” “You fucking love me, babe. You’re just mad ‘cause I’m telling the truth about how much of a little cock-slut you can be.” Y/N turns on her heels, bracing the burning in her cheeks. “Just finish washing up.” Harry reaches forward and tugs her into his open arms, kissing down her neck and all over the side of her face, chuckling at how warm her skin is. “You know I’m just teasin’, pet!”

“You’re still an dick for it.” She refuses to give him the response he wants, fighting off his contagious smile. “I thought you liked being called a ‘cock-slut’?!” He exclaims in faux shock, smushing her further into his embrace and stretching his neck forward to catch her nose with his pecking lips, feeling her trying to hold back a grin. “What about ‘cum-whore’? Is that better?’ She breaks out into full laughter. “You’re so annoying.” Harry sugars his voice into a babyish drawl, running his fingers down her sides and giggling boyishly as she squirms. “S’only cause I love you so much.” Y/N manages to break free, holding her arms out in front of her as a protective barrier to block another possible tickle attack. “Okay, okay! That’s enough!“ Harry wiggles his fingers dangerously, shrugging his brows. “Or is ittttt?” “No!” Y/N points at him warningly as he goes to exit the tub. “Get back in and finish your shower before you get a soap rash.” He rolls his eyes grandly, arms dropping to his sides. “Fine, mum.” The command was more to save herself than for his well-being, but it seems to have worked out for both of them so she won’t question her motives. “Can’t believe you actually listened for once.” She mocks, pulling the curtain closed as Harry turns on the faucet. He sticks his head out, smiling at her fondly and batting his lashes innocently. “It’s cause I want pancakes, pleaseeee.” Y/N reaches out and shoves his head back in. “That can be arranged.” He pokes it out again with an even bigger, exaggerated expression. “With blueberries.” She pushes him back in. “Fine.” Harry yells over the sound of the water. “And an omelet!” “Okay, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

#smut #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty imagine #harry styles dirty fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles met gala #harry styles solo

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bang-to-the-tan · 5 years ago

Text

Moth to Flame

Chapter 9

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: Explicit Reference to Self Harm, Explicit Duress, Voyeurism, Public Sex, Degredation, Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Male Masturbation, Handjob, Threesome (M/M/F), Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

Words: 8.3K

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

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“Hold her upright, I can’t wash her stomach properly with her hunched like this.”

“I’m trying, she’s too—”

“She’s slipping!”

“Well, help me get a better grip, then!”

Warmth underneath your armpits, heating your back. There’s pressure tapping steadily on the top of your head, trailing down in front of your face and down your neck. Wet. It’s wet. It feels really good, actually. Everything is warm and soft.

“Wait, holy shit.”

“Grab her waist!”

Why are you hovering like this? You cast a glance down, feeling dizzy at the way that your vision swivels drunkenly. Legs. Those are your legs. They won’t stand upright. Ah. The tiling under your feet is pretty, though. Green. You like green.

“Jungkook!” The warm skin is hands. There are arms underneath yours, wide hands gripping your shoulders. Your body slips limply and both you and the person behind you nearly go down, saved only by thudding into the wall. You watch your feet swing in front of another pair of tanned feet. Can you exchange feet? Those ones look like they work. They’re really big. They work but you bet you’d have a hard time finding cute shoes for them.

“I think she’s waking up!”

More hands, one holding each cheek, lifting your head to meet wide, brown eyes. Dazed as you are, a smile pulls at your lips when you recognize the face waving in front of you. You know him, that’s Jungkook. You love Jungkook.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. His thumbs caress your cheeks as he bobs his head, watching the way your eyes follow him with excitement. “Hey. Thank god. You’re okay…”

“Sleepy,” you correct him, slurring.

“W-what?”

“What did she say?” That must be Taehyung, his deep voice rumbling through your back in a way very familiar.

“You’re sleepy?”

You hum.

“O-okay, that’s okay—”

“Is she alright?”

“I don’t know. I need you to wake up for us. Can you do that? Wake up.”

“She doesn’t sound alright.”

You consider the command. You can feel his words rolling over your skin—but they pass right over you just as surely as the water. They don’t sink in, don’t flood your sight or curl through your body like they usually do. Water. Ah. That’s water. It feels really nice.

You hum again. Water, water, tiles, tiles. Are you naked? Yes. You are. Then it must be a shower. You’re having a shower. You like having a shower. You’re really dizzy and it’s hard to focus your eyes. The world spins headily. Not so much a fan of that part.

“No, no, no, hey, stay with us—!” Jungkook pats your face, squishes your cheeks, but your eyelids are drooping of their own accord, painting him in the shadows of your eyelashes and blurring his colors and outlines together.

“She’s going out again? Let me try—”

“I—it didn’t work at all, it’s not working anymore—“

“She’s going limp!”

You certainly are. Your motor control, what little of it you had to begin with, is giving up. Your vision doesn’t seem to want to stay put. Your head lolls. The edges of your sight darken and furl inwards.

“Jimin! Jimin, get—”

“Wake up.”

Your eyelids fly open. Your gaze blurs as you struggle to comprehend what you’re seeing, struggle to focus on the person staring intently at you. You feel a hand at your hairline, pushing your hair back from your face gently, and you purr in the wake of the contentment that washes over you. You aren’t in the shower anymore, but somewhere else familiar. More importantly, there is another man leaning over you and taking up most of your vision. Affection makes your heart swell when you realize who it is.

“Jin,” you croak through the smile beginning to form on your face. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he replies. His returned grin is small, but it’s there, and it fills your chest with warm butterflies. He looks tired again. He’s certainly not too pleased with something. Multiple somethings. You hope it isn’t you.

“I missed you,” you add.

He snorts. “Did you…?”

“I said it would work if it was Jin.” That’s Jimin. You can’t see him, but his voice is coming from somewhere to your right.

“You didn’t know for sure.” Taehyung points out. He’s over there, too, somewhere.

“She’s going to be okay now, right?” Jungkook. The gang’s all here, then. You cast a glance past Jin’s midnight-colored head, searching for cherry boy’s signature mop—but he’s out of your range. You can see the ceiling painting, though. And it’s soft beneath you. You must be back on the bed. Arousal sparks in your belly. On the bed, in the middle of all these wonderful men. You know how this goes.

“Just because I can haze her to wake up doesn’t mean she’s okay.” Jin replies. There’s annoyance in his tone. Something dark, warning. It fills the room with a kind of electricity. “How are you feeling?”

You watch him with wide eyes. The way he meets your gaze steadily tells you he’s waiting for you to answer. Oh. The question was for you. How are you feeling?

Your throat is sore. Your cunt feels a little used, but it’s not necessarily a bad feeling. The hurt at your neck is better, but you suspect that’s mostly because there’s a deep, pulsating throb at your breast that aches with pain and pleasure every time you inhale or exhale. Comparatively, your neck isn’t even on your list of priorities anymore.

Jin’s still waiting for you and with every second you take to contemplate his question, he gets more and more concerned, his eyebrows pulling together and his smile disappearing.

“I’m okay,” you settle on finally, cheerily. “Tired.”

“Listen to the way she’s slurring,” another voice puts in with a low whistle. “You three really fucked her up, huh?”

Your neck cranes and you cast your view around, looking in shock for the fourth member of the neat little party you’re currently having. There, by the doorway. It’s…Hoseok. That’s his name. He’s standing casually, hands in the pockets of his expensive-looking jacket. He meets your eyeline and grins widely, crookedly. His smile is all teeth, and it does something funny to your insides to watch him bare them.

“It was my fault—“ Jimin starts quickly, but Jungkook interrupts.

“It was my fault. I went too far.”

“You keep saying that.” Hoseok points out.

“Because it’s true.”

Deft hands slip chilly fingers into your collar—you’re wearing Namjoon’s hoodie again, you realize—and tug down to reveal the skin on your chest. Your breath catches in excitement, but Jin only frowns at the crimson marks left there.

“We didn’t take more than a mouthful each,” Taehyung insists suddenly, shifting. You catch a glimpse of his golden hair. It’s shiny. Wet. “And she was almost healed from when you fed anyways.”

Jin brushes a thumb over the bright wound, and you gasp. Electricity skitters from the point of contact, linking to your neck, travelling to alight your cunt. You writhe faintly, thighs rubbing together. It seems like Namjoon’s hoodie is the only thing you’re wearing at present. You make the mistake of meeting Jin’s glance as you make this realization. His tongue flits out nervously, eyes burning through yours as if he could pull you apart here, now, and swallow down the remains.

“I don’t think that’s the problem,” he hums. His lips barely move.

“I don’t think it’s not the problem,” Hoseok interjects in a half-amused, half-dangerous tone.

“It’s a problem. But…I’ve never seen this happen to someone. Never heard of someone passing out like that. Refusing to wake up. Not for this long at a time.”

“So…?”

“So maybe…maybe she’s been hazed too much?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Since when does hazing cause brain damage?”

“Did I say brain damage? Watch her when I touch the marks.”

This time, when he presses his thumb against the bite, a thrill crashes through your spine, flooding your limbs, and you audibly whine. You shift, and you don’t miss the way his resolve briefly wavers, how he watches your legs curl again, watches your chest rise and fall with a sharp inhale. Pleasure, low and deep, curls about your frame, fizzling out into your limbs and leaving you wanting.

“Okay, she’s a freak. I’ve seen chicks who were into weirder shit before.”

“That doesn’t seem like her.”

“Please don’t tell me you think you know her like a lover now,” Hoseok snaps back, but the amusement is fading from his eyes. He watches the back of Jin’s head with an expression like disbelief and concern. “What, are you two best friends now, since you fucked her like a whore and drank her like a meal?”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Jungkook bites, and when he takes an impulsive step forward, he moves into your field of view. He looks legitimately angry, his handsome profile angled in a way that puts his body between you and the other vampire. His hair isn’t dry yet either, and it sticks to the sharp edges of his jawline, his cheekbones.

“You’ve called her worse.” His elder doesn’t move from his position against the doorway, but the way his eyes flit to meet him, sizes him up briefly, begs him to take another step. Promises him he’ll regret it. You shiver, reaching instinctively for Jin’s arm. He covers your hand with his, warm, rubbing a thumb across your knuckles, and it’s a comfort you readily sink into.

But Jimin interrupts, and as he moves to situate himself between the others, you can see him, too. He’s wearing his sweater again, and it’s returned him back to his sweet side. Huggable, soft—miles away from the man that demanded you choke on another’s cock. That pinned you to his elder’s bed and fucked you while his brother slid into your throat.

“She likes that sort of thing in the moment,” he confirms quietly. “But she’s really easy to get attached to when we haven’t had anything else in so long.”

Hoseok looks to him, and a kind of fondness crosses his expression for a split second. He nods, assenting, looking away. “Yeah. Alright. I get that.” When he meets Jungkook’s eye again, the tension that had been building dissolves—not completely gone, but ramped down significantly. “Sorry. I know you’ve had it rough lately.”

Jungkook nods, once, sharp. The angle of his shoulders doesn’t change.

“Its dangerous to get too attached, though.” Hoseok continues. “We’re not in the market for a pet. Just a temporary fix for a bad situation.”

“You aren’t telling me how to manage my coven.” Jin murmurs. It’s almost a question. He’s watching you, but he isn’t really looking at you. He’s musing on something deep, something hidden. You imitate his soothing rubbing, squeezing at his arm faintly. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could haze him? If you could bring him down here, with you, where it’s warm and safe and everything’s okay? You blink. Your eyes are feeling heavy again, but it’s a nice thought. He’s always so worried, so tired. You’re threatening to fade out at the corners.

“You’re right. I’m not.”

Jin doesn’t seem convinced. “…I don’t know that she’ll be alright to move right now in any case.”

“She obviously can’t stay here.”

“Mistakes were made—”

“Clearly.”

The dark-haired man in front of you finally rears up at the blatant tone in Hoseok’s voice. Still holding your hand, he turns, eyes flashing. “Watch it.”

“Your circus,” the other returns bluntly, unblinking. “Your monkeys. This was your problem from the start, Jin. Always has been.”

“You do not tell me how to manage my own coven, Hoseok.”

The two lock gazes, bristling. The younger vampires, in the corners of your sight, sway uncertainly. Jungkook’s jaw clenches, and you can see the muscles flex underneath his skin from here. Jimin casts a brief look towards you, licking his lips. He moves to take another intervening step, opens his mouth to try and diffuse the situation further, but Hoseok beats him to it, striding towards you and taking your free wrist in his hand. Jin’s hand slips from yours, but you maintain your grip on him as you’re pulled up from the bed, onto unsteady feet and into Hoseok’s chest. You get a gentle waft of whatever body wash he uses—vanilla-scented—as you stumble faintly and he catches you.

“I’m not telling you how to manage your coven,” he replies steadily, above you, his voice vibrating smoothly against your cheek. “But I am saying this isn’t the first time you refused to put your foot down.”

“You’re going to have to carry her out of here.” Jin’s response is hushed, but you can hear the danger lurking underneath the softness of his tone. You the fingers at your hand again, peeling you off his shirt sleeve. You wish you weren’t so disappointed to leave him. Another wash of tiredness floods over you and you sway, but Hoseok has you supported, holds you closer. “She can’t walk.”

“It won’t be the last time, either, until you do something about them.”

The body in front of you shifts, bending, his head dipping to your neck. Excitement again roils through your frame, automatically linking your arms around his shoulders, but he’s catching the backs of your knees, tucking your neck into the crook of his elbow, and suddenly he’s lifting you up off the ground into a bridal carry. He jostles you a little more comfortably, ignoring the way you stare at him, wide-eyed.

His features are so sharp, so delicate, the color of his skin so warm and inviting. His hair looks soft, dark and deftly styled. But there’s something else, deep inside of you, that sparks as you watch him. Like a light switch activated from a mile away. The way his mouth moves when he talks, his profile.

Jin continues to ignore him. “I tried to keep her fed, but obviously I was called out before I could make sure she had anything to eat, so she’ll probably be hungry once the haze wears off.”

“We’ll take care of her. Don’t worry about it.”

A warm palm to your cheek, encouraging your head to turn, to meet Jin’s eye.

“They’ll take care of you.” he repeats. “So you’ll behave yourself, right?”

You blink at him, distracted by the train of thought concerning Hoseok more than anything. Finally, you nod. He smoothes his thumb over your skin. He smiles, but it’s empty. Your heart sinks at the same time as another wash of sleepiness sweeps over you. Your blink takes too long, and you know he notices. You wish this didn’t feel like goodbye. The lingering warmth, comfort, from his haze, flickers like a flame and evaporates a little more, leaving you impossibly tired, weary.

“We’ll miss you,” you hear Taheyung murmur.

“Thank you,” Jimin adds, quiet.

Hoseok moves to walk out the door with you, his strides smooth and purposeful. Jin’s hand lingers on your face, but hesitantly begins to slip away. You watch the man above you, trying again to grasp at the vague memories that light up the depths of your mind, even as you sink further into velvety darkness.

“Tell Namjoon this makes us even.” Jin says.

“I’ll tell him, but you know it doesn’t.”

“He doesn’t get to judge me. Neither do you. I’m still your elder.”

Hoseok pauses in the doorway, cranes his head over his shoulder.

“This wouldn’t have happened back then. Namjoon wouldn’t have let it happen.”

You hear the shuffle of feet, as someone rushing forward suddenly, but it’s put to an abrupt halt. Hoseok’s face doesn’t change, still looking calmly behind him.

“Get out of my house, Hoseok.” When Jin’s voice comes again, it’s so much deeper, so much darker than you’ve ever heard it.

Hoseok smirks humorlessly and finally glances down at you. You waver, your sight darkening. Your hold around his neck is loosening despite your best efforts as you search his eyes, chasing that spark of familiarity.

“Let’s go home, pretty girl.”

You hum. He starts moving again, out the door, back down the hall, cradling you easily. Your neck lolls and you crane back to look into the room you’re leaving. Jungkook, standing next to Jin, Taehyung and Jimin behind them, still circled around the bed. All of them meet your eyes at once. Jin has one arm extended in front of Jungkook, who looks like he’s ready to fight, muscles tense and coiled, soft mouth curved into a frown. None of them look happy to see you go. None of them say anything as you keep moving, until the doorway swivels them out of sight and you start going down the stairs.

“Pretty girl.” You repeat to yourself. Hoseok doesn’t pay you any mind. You blink. The feeling fading from your limbs dissipates. Your eyes don’t reopen and instead you sink, body heavy, into an inky void.

It isn’t sleep that claims you, but something deeper. You let it have you for a time. The soft caress of nothingness that holds you tenderly. It’s nice. Until it breaks, like waves upon a shore made of neon.

Sweat, bodies bumping into you, the lingering taste of alcohol, universe spinning, bass thumping along with your heart. Your world is strobe lights and heavy air.

He’s watching you. You know he is. On the next beat, you make sure your hips swivel even harder, even more smoothly, your eyes half-lidded, bottom lip caught between your teeth. What would you do if he was up here with you, what thoughtless choices would you make? You need him to see what you’d do for him, what you’ll do if he keeps looking at you like that.

The music is so loud, it swallows up nearly everything, the whoops, the calling, the laughter from the drunk patrons. None of them have clearly defined faces. Their features melt and blend, sometimes too sharp and sometimes blurred entirely, but that’s okay. You’re not here for them. You’re here…you’re here for…

Your heart twists and you banish the pain that comes with that train of thought. You just need to dance. That’s it. You just need to dance.

As you turn, you hazard a brazen glance back to the bar. Back to the man watching your every move. Legs spread as he lounges on a barstool like he’s part of the scenery. He definitely appreciated that last swing, his mouth stretching into a dangerous grin. His tongue slips out to lick his teeth coyly, eyes dark. The man sitting next to him also casts a glance your way, a smirk pulling at his plush lips. Could you snag both of them? A thrill coasts through you as you consider the possibilities. He’s not the first one you’ve caught watching you. There’s a lot of handsome men out tonight. Where has the blonde disappeared off to? You can’t see him in the crowd. Not that it matters too much. Hands slide onto your waist, encouraging you into a feverish grind against firm hips, and you allow it, encourage it, make a scene out of it. You could take both of the two at the bar home, could take them anywhere, judging from their stares.

“You live around here?” A deep voice asks. It’s quiet, but it breaks through the noise easily, parts it like a stone in a brook.

“No.”

A hand leaves your waist to brush hair from your shoulder, lips nuzzle closer into the space underneath your jaw, murmuring against your neck.

“You come here often?”

“Never been here before.”

You’re responding easily enough, but you’re distracted by the men at the bar. The one you’ve focused on raises his eyebrows, cranes his head to his friend. You won’t pretend you catch everything he says. But you see him mouthing pretty girl.

…Hoseok? It’s Hoseok. Your stomach plummets, your universe tilts violently. Next to him, Namjoon makes an amused face, gesturing as he responds, but you lose everything he says.

You blink. Where are you? What are you doing? Why do you know this so well?

The deep-voiced stranger behind you chuckles, spins you around and suddenly you’re facing him. Blonde hair, purple eyes, killer grin.

“Came out all the way here just to dance? Or maybe just to stare at people?” he hums, tucking a finger under your jaw, still swaying with you to the music. His eyes are so intently focused on you, you can feel them burning underneath your skin. “Why?”

“That’s for me to know,” you purr, “And you to find out. If you wanted.”

You giggle flirtatiously, watching the strobe lights glance off his smirk, light up his hair. Why are you back here? What’s going on? Is this—is this a memory? Panic rises inside of you, curls, and even as you try to anchor yourself, try to calm down and keep a handle on everything, the memory flickers around you. The walls pulse, the music distorts. The patrons surrounding you on all sides flit in and out of existence, blurred, fading. Taehyungs head dips to your neck again, catching the flesh between his teeth with a brief nip. It hurts. It hurts, he’s broken skin, and you struggle backwards, except it doesn’t, and you don’t. You sigh, leaning into the teasing kiss he plants there.

“You don’t know the half of what I want,” he rumbles, thick.

You laugh again, and it echoes. The space is empty. The music is deafening. You can’t think, it’s so loud.

“Jin thinks she’s been hazed too much.”

Taehyung disappears from your grasp. You’re alone. And yet, there’s someone talking, pausing. You’re annoyed at it. Deeply.

“That’s what I said—the kids swear they didn’t take enough to cause any problems.”

The music stutters and halts, turning into some rap track. It’s much quieter, but you can still feel the bass. Your eyelids flutter and your nose scrunches as you slowly come back to reality. There’s cushion underneath you and the ambient sounds of gravel crunching all around, the whirr of an engine. And your head is splitting in half.

“Honestly, that’s gonna have to be up to you. I don’t know.”

You sit up with a quiet groan, pressing your palms to your eyes with a huff of pain. God, you have got the killer-est of migraines right now. Thank fuck it’s dark outside, but the flashes of streetlights are going to send you straight to your grave.

“Haha, I’ll take that bet. We’ll have to see.”

You peel your eyelids open with some effort, moving your hands to press to your temples, squinting blearily at your surroundings. You’re in the backseat of a car. Hoseok is driving, phone in one hand, other hand carelessly laid against the steering wheel. If he’s noticed that you’re up, he doesn’t show it. You almost gripe about him not paying enough attention to the road, but casting a glance out of the window tells you it’s probably either early as balls or late as hell. No one else is on the roads. You look at the dashboard. 2:30 AM. Figures.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah. Definitely. It should be worn off completely by then anyways.”

You glare disparagingly at the vampire in the front seat, frowning. God, does he have to talk so loudly? You shift again. Your body feels like if a garbage dump was a person. Your neck hurts, your chest hurts—sharp and painful. Your throat and all of your limbs are sore. You grunt as you scoot backwards in the seat. The downstairs is not too thrilled at the moment, either. You’ve really taken a beating.

“Sounds like a good idea to me. Yeah. No.” Hoseok chuckles. As you look up, you accidentally lock eyes with him through the rearview mirror. “No, I don’t think that’s too much. She can take it.”

A shiver runs through you, and he definitely catches on, his smirk growing.

“Yeah. We’ll meet you there.” He clicks the phone off and sets it down on the passenger’s seat before looking back up, briefly craning over the seat to flash a grin your way.

“Hello, hello, sleepyhead.”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” you huff, hoarse. “Maniac.”

“Aw, what’s the matter? Someone’s grumpy. You were all over me a little while ago.”

“Yeah, when I was brainwashed,” you snap back, crossing your arms and turning to face the window. “And now I have a raging headache.”

“Interesting choice of words. Raging.” His tongue slips over the word too smoothly and you hate him for it.

“Don’t you fucking think about it. Closed for business.”

“That’s new. Sounds to me like you were all sorts of open.”

“I—” Memories, fragments of them, flash in your mind, and your throat goes dry. Hands all over you, hushed whispers, murmurs; being used up and drained dry like a toy. You push it all down aggressively. “I wasn’t in my right mind.”

Hoseok laughs at that. “Right. Right. You were hazed.”

The way he says it, like it’s a flimsy excuse, has you balking, craning to pull a disbelieving face at him.

“Yeah! I was!”

He only chuckles. “How are you feeling?”

“You already asked me that.”

“Jin asked,” he corrects, careless, “And I’m asking again. Now that you’re ‘in your right mind’.”

“Everything hurts.”

“Everything?” You can hear the raise in his eyebrows. You elect to ignore it.

“I’ve got a headache.”

“You mentioned. Bad?”

“Bad enough I’m already sick of whatever you’ve got playing on the radio.”

“Don’t insult my musical tastes just because you made bad decisions this morning.”

You shift again, frowning out the window. “They weren’t my decisions.”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s quiet between the two of you for a second, you delving into a surly silence and him seemingly content with leaving you to marinate in it. You spot a neon sign saying something about waffles lighting up a sparsely populated parking lot and to your surprise, he starts to pull into it.

“Hungry?” you ask, incredulous. What are they even doing open at this time…? You’ve heard of 24/hr breakfast diners—but as far as you know, there’s never been one by where you lived.

Wait. Where you live?

“A little bit.”

The car jerks as he pulls up and puts it into park, unbuckling his seat belt.

Where do you live?...

God, it was almost there. It was almost there. You don’t even notice that he’s gotten out until the door you were leaning against opens and almost dumps you out onto the pavement.

“Not as much as Yoongi, though.” He’s still talking. You shuffle upwards, frowning at your surroundings as you dismount, trying not to wince as literally all of you complains in a chorus of aches. “Which is lucky for you.”

“Lucky me,” you echo sardonically, avoiding the hand he reaches out to help you to the door. You’ll stumble, thanks.

“It is.”

He takes your arm anyways, tugging you in close to himself, looking you over when you shoot a glare up at him.

“He probably would have pulled over on the side of the road if you were moaning in your sleep in his backseat.”

You freeze, mortified, meeting his eyes. Not a hint of a lie in his chocolatey depths. “…I wasn’t.”

“Oh, you were.” He pats your arm with his free hand, mouth stretching into a dopey grin, mockingly consoling. “Yeah.”

“No.”

“Like a pornstar. A lesser man wouldn’t have made it all this way.”

You roll your eyes, but let him lead you through the doors, cringing at the too-bright sound of the bell hung above them. As you could have guessed from the lack of cars outside, it’s not exactly crowded in here. One or two people, a group of clearly intoxicated youngsters—and a familiar face, seated at a booth tucked into the divider that splits the restaurant in two. Namjoon smiles at you, raising an arm to usher you over. Across from him, back towards you, you can see black hair. That must be Yoongi. He doesn’t turn around.

“That being said, if it’s my name you’re calling next time,” Hoseok’s voice has dropped into a low growl, lips barely moving as you both walk closer to the table. You can feel his breath hot against your ear. “I’ll be sure to give you something to moan about.”

Treacherous arousal skirts down your spine and straight to your crotch and you wince at the brief ache, refusing to look at him.

“Glad you could make it,” Namjoon says, eyes squishing upwards as his grin widens congenially. If he notices your mild discomfort, he doesn’t show it. Yoongi looks up as you come around the side, looking first to you, then Hoseok, then back to you. He prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, nodding as a form of greeting. The circles under his eyes have gotten darker, and his hair looks almost ragged, unbrushed, hanging into his face. When he scoots inwards to allow you a seat, you can see his hand shaking for just a second. He looks sickly. The lights in here are too harsh, they hurt your eyes, make the thudding in your head all that much worse.

“It’s not like there’s traffic,” Hoseok snipes, but it’s comfortable, familiar. You shoot him a surprised look when he goes to sit next to you, encouraging you to shift closer to Yoongi, instead of joining Namjoon on the other side, but he only raises his eyebrows and makes shooing motions with his hand. You do what you can, but Yoongi doesn’t seem interested in moving and you end up thigh to thigh with him, smelling his gentle cologne, pressed to his forearm. Hoseok sprawls obnoxiously on the end of the seat, slinging an arm around the back and casting a pleased look about the table.

“Sounds like you’ve had an exciting morning,” Namjoon begins.

You hum noncommittally, trying to focus on monitoring your breathing. You know Yoongi can hear your heartbeat, know he can smell only god knows what on you. It’s then that you realize Namjoon’s got a milkshake in front of him, bright pink and chock full of strawberries, and there’s a basket of fries sitting next to the drinks menu on the end of the table. Forget what Yoongi can smell, because you catch a whiff of them and your stomach coils painfully, an embarrassing growl sounding in your gut. They smell perfect. Delicious. Your mouth waters.

“Oh!” Namjoon blinks, pushing them towards you. “Yeah, here, we got these for you. Jin said you’d probably be hungry.”

Despite the eager expression on his face, you hesitate.

“…Are you sure? You don’t want any?” you ask quietly.

“Not hungry for fries.” Yoongi mumbles, hoarse. You aren’t going to look at him.

“That’s really cute, actually,” Hoseok scoffs with a smile, shaking his head. “’You don’t want any’.”

“All for you, baby. Go ahead.”

On the one hand, you wish you could say you were patient and diligent with this unconventional gift. But in reality, you nearly grabbed a handful of fried potato goodness and stuffed it down your maw with all the ferocity of a half-starved bear. You eat like it’s going out of style, reveling in the overly greasy saltiness of the fries and the sweetness of the shake, and when it’s finally over, basket empty, glass drained, you sink back into your seat with a heavy, contented sigh. The lights are still blaring but the dull ache in your head is at least helped with some food.

“Better?” It’s with an embarrassed feeling that you realize everyone at the table has been watching you eat intently, but the smile on Namjoon’s face is nothing but deeply pleased.

“…Yes. Thank you.” You finally mumble, quiet.

“Anytime.”

“You really were hungry, huh?”

“For something besides cock.” Yoongi pipes in again, under his breath, and this time, it catches you by enough surprise that you flit over to meet his stare. “It sounds like you’ve had more than your fill of that lately, hm?” he clarifies, low. You flush. His tongue flits out to drag across his lips, studying the way you turn away quickly.

You look instead to Namjoon, hoping he’ll chastise his comrade or at least turn the conversation to something else, but his eyes have darkened, his smile unwavering.

“That’s okay,” he says, tone dipping into deceptively calm waters. “It’s hard to resist Jin’s boys. Even after you’ve been told to stay away.”

“I—”your voice catches in your throat. “I was hazed.”

“Yeah?” He blinks, still smirking. His head cocks.

You cast a disbelieving glance around the table. Hoseok only offers you a raise of his eyebrows and Yoongi’s eyes are busy trailing up your body at a snail’s pace. He’s not listening to your words. You have got to stop looking at him—everytime you do, a shiver crawls down your spine and you have to resist the urge to shift your thighs away from him. You turn back to Namjoon.

“So I had no control over any of it!” you clarify, lowering your voice when a waitress passes by. “It’s not like I could just break out of it. I didn’t have any say in what happened.”

Namjoon chuckles, craning forwards to rest his elbows on the table. He takes a breath like he’s explaining simple concepts to a child, watching some indeterminate point in space to his left. “Like mind control. Is that what you think haze is?”

“…obviously?”

His eyes flit to meet yours again and your stomach goes into free fall. “If we could control every human being like that, twist them in ways they didn’t want, command what we need from them, why are we starving?”

Now that gives you pause. You think of Jungkook. Of Yoongi. You can’t say you’ve thought about it—not that you’ve had time to. It doesn’t make sense, you guess, but…?

“I—I don’t…”

“Take a steak knife from the silverware holder.” Namjoon’s haze is light, almost sweet, but it swirls about your skin just the same, fills your lungs with stardust. Immediately, you reach for a knife, curling your fingers around the handle. You aren’t sure what you’re doing with it, but you’ve got it now. Everything is as it should be. You immediately relax.

“Put your other hand on the table, palm up.”

It’s already done. You blink, looking down at your hand, faintly mesmerized by the way the overhead light plays off the lines in your skin. Something, something sour, curls in your belly. Vaguely, you’re aware of the soft snicker to your right. Yoongi. What is he laughing for?

“Raise the knife a little higher.”

Why is your stomach coiling? You’ve broken out into a cold sweat. Your hands are starting to tremble. There’s something wrong. Something wrong?

“Hold it over your palm.”

“P-please.” You stammer. What for? What is this feeling? There’s panic building inside you so intense your legs are restless, your chest is beginning to rise and fall rapidly with harshening breaths. It’s not you speaking, but it’s your voice that leaves your lips, frantic. “Please, Namjoon, please, don’t—”

Your hand tingles, your fingers twitch.

“When I say ‘now’,” he’s still talking, evenly, smoothly, “Bring the knife down. Hard. Push it through the table. Understand?”

You’re shaking so hard it’s visible, tears building up in your eyes and coursing down your cheeks when you blink, confused. Your breathing is shuddery now, on the verge of sobs and there is screaming in your head again.

“Of cour-of cour—ple-please, Nam—of course,” your teeth are chattering.

“Ready?”

You take a huge gulp of air, vision spinning, chest heaving; what is going on with you? Maybe you’ll be okay once he says the word. Once you do as he says. A hand curls around your wrist, pinning your hand to the table more firmly, even as it convulses, twitches. Hoseok. He’s helping you. That’s nice. But you’re still crying. Another hand, hesitant, slipping across your thigh. Dangerous, feather light. Yoongi.

“Ready?” he echoes, rasping into your ear.

You nod. Except you don’t. Your head is shaking fervently ‘no’. A whimper escapes your throat and you almost vibrate right out of your seat.

“Now.”

You scream. You’re sobbing. Shaking, every muscle in your body drawn painfully tight, legs seizing. You can’t see, you’re crying so hard, and you can feel the drops on your arm, dripping down your chin. Your teeth are clenched to the point that you’re not far from breaking them, head bowed, shoulders taut.

A second, two, pass.

Oxygen rushes through your lungs when you finally let go of the breath you were holding, sucking in air with gasping sobs that wrack your entire frame. Forcefully, you open your right hand, the handle of the knife sliding from your grasp and falling to the table with a clatter that sounds too loud, too deafening, even in competition with the sound of your weeping. You curl forward, pulling your free arm into your chest, still shuddering violently.

“Do you get it?” Namjoon murmurs.

Your mind whirls, skin prickling, shivering.

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“You fucker,” you spit, suddenly filled with white-hot rage. You jump to stand, but Yoongi’s hand on your thigh and Hoseok’s hand on your wrist both flex with inhuman strength, forcing you back down. You shoot daggers at Namjoon through the tears, teeth bared.

“You didn’t do it,” he answers himself, scooting forward again. “Because I can’t make you do it.”

“You almost made me stab myself?!” your voice rises in pitch, angry. “To prove a point?!”

“You can’t keep hiding behind haze. We’re gonna break you out of that habit now.” He returns, even. His hand comes too fast towards you and he grips your chin, pursing your lips. His grin is feral this time. You flinch to raise your other arm towards him, unsure if you’re going to push him away or punch him, but Yoongi catches it with his free hand, pulling it back to your side. You’re rendered completely immobile.

“One, it can’t put you in direct danger. And two, when it clashes with something you really don’t want to do? It breaks.” Namjoon licks his lips and snarls through a smirk, nose scrunching, eyes unblinking as they bore through yours. He relinquishes your face, sitting back in the booth, but the two on either side of you don’t let go of your wrists.

Namjoon relaxes, his face smoothing back into something less threatening, brows flitting upwards.

“So,” he continues, low. “When you’re a slut, baby, you have to understand that it’s because you’re a slut. Nothing we could do to you would change that.”

“Fuck you,” you grit out through your teeth.

“Only if you begged nicely.”

“Are we talking fucking now?” Yoongi pipes up, his voice heavy. He sounds weirdly…restless. Excited. “Fuck, that was so hot.”

“I know, right?” Hoseok agrees in a mumble. You feel Yoongi lean in and you twitch to move away, but you’re trapped between the two men, their grips on your wrists tightening and Yoongi’s other hand stroking, petting, against your thigh.

A huff of surprise leaves you when you feel his breath on your cheek, then something hot and slimy. You struggle, but he drags his tongue up your cheek, tasting your tears.

“So scared,” he hums, smacking.

“You don’t really think we’d hurt you, do you?” Hoseok adds. You glance at him, feeling your gut churn at the way his eyes are blown wide, the impatient way he licks his lips. “You don’t really think we’d put a hole in your pretty little hand?”

Yoongi groans, scooting closer. “God, but what would it be like to jack off with it?” he growls. His hand becomes more bold, circling further up your leg, and the teasing brushes send shivers through your body. The adrenaline from your fear hasn’t worn off yet, leaving you skittish and wired—but Yoongi and Hoseok panting into your ears, Yoongi’s long fingers drifting further and further to your bare cunt, separated only by the hoodie…His thumb drags through the fabric and meets your clit on the way, and you jolt, breath catching.

“A weird thought, but okay.” Hoseok scoffs. He shifts to be closer, so that you’re now sandwiched between them, half-bare legs pressed to theirs, wrists caught in their grip.

“I’m so hungry,” Yoongi says in a conspiratorial whisper, catching your earlobe between his teeth. “I could drain you right from your cunt and fuck the corpse.”

His hand works your clit underneath the table, too desperate to be steady, too feverish to give you a rhythm, but still it builds arousal in your belly, begins to soak through the hem of the hoodie.

“That didn’t take long, did it?” he muses, feeling for the wetness gathering with his fingertips. You flush, embarrassed, angry, and open your mouth to argue, to demand he stop, but you falter when he leans towards the marks on your neck.

“Well, now we’ve got that out of the way,” Namjoon continues suddenly. Yoongi inhales deeply at your skin like Jungkook had, tongue slipping out to press kitten licks against the bites. The arousal that slams through you, that travels straight from top to bottom, sends your legs into spasm, humping once at the hand still sloppily rubbing at your core. You gasp, sucking in a breath.

“I wanted to talk house rules.”

Hoseok tugs at your hand, and your palm meets something hard and hot. Looking in shock, you can see his cock, yanked out of his boxers, through his unzipped jeans, within clear view of anyone who might walk past if not for the meager modesty of the table. He curls your fingers around him and you make the mistake of then glancing up to meet his eyes. His eyebrow flits upwards, grinning widely, his tongue passing over his teeth.

“Pay attention when someone’s talking,” he chastises, thick.

Yoongi laps at your wounds again and you can’t help but make a fist, stroking Hoseok once. He fucks into your hand smoothly, lithely, hips rippling like they were made of water, eyes never leaving yours.

“You haven’t shown up as a missing person yet, so if you want to go outside, I don’t mind—just take one of us with you. For safety.”

You yelp when Yoongi bites down, hard, and you almost wish it didn’t send such a strong pulse of want through you, didn’t make your back arch, toes curl.

“If you’re hungry or tired, y’know, just tell one of us. The blood situation out here is really bad; we do genuinely want to take care of you. No one wants you hurt.”

“Except you,” Hoseok chides, still staring at you. “You seem fine with it.”

“My kind of girl,” Yoongi growls, catching your skin again and you whimper, gyrating against him.

“I really want you to get well. Honest. If we can just use you temporarily, just until everyone isn’t starving, I promise we’ll let you go after. You have my word.”

You look to Namjoon. He’s still talking as though you’re in any state to answer him, still so genuine. The only indication he gives that he’s aware of what’s going on is when Yoongi tears himself away from you with a grunt.

“Namjoon.” He says, heavy. It’s almost a plea.

“Go ahead.” Is his answer.

Namjoon leans forward again, tucks his chin into his thumbs, watches you steadily past his entwined fingers, as Yoongi relinquishes your hand, turns, and kicks his legs out, suddenly sliding beneath the table. You don’t have time to process what’s happening before you feel slender hands returning to your thighs, shoving your knees apart. Strands of hair dance teasingly over your legs, the hoodie thrust up and out of the way. Teeth nip at your inner thighs, soothe the brief pinpricks with saccharine kisses, travelling up to your core. You shudder, chest heaving, trying to scoot away in anticipation. Your free hand dashes beneath the table, intending to push him away, but Hoseok is quicker. He snatches your wrist away just as Yoongi finally makes contact with your pussy, pressing a lingering kiss against your center. You keen, attempting to cut off the loudest of it, hands curling.

They aren’t doing this in the middle of a restaurant. But the slow blink Namjoon serves you as Yoongi slurps headily at your clit, as Hoseok fucks your palm, tells you a different story.

It’s mortifying, how quickly your orgasm builds, even as you struggle and jerk limply against Hoseok’s hold on your arms, Yoongi’s grip on your thighs.

“You still haven’t told me that you don’t want this,” Namjoon points out.

“Because she does, right? God, she loves it. Center of fucking attention,” Hoseok pants, chuckles into your ear when you flinch, biting back another moan.

“It could stop if you did. If you told me to stop. I’d tell them to stop. We leave you here. We go home. Easy.”

Yoongi groans against you, licking a long stripe through your wetness, sucks a swollen lip into his mouth and nibbles it. You’re gasping, humming, shivering and rolling, the wire inside you pulling dangerously taut. But still you bite your lip, defiant. You don’t meet Namjoon’s eye, staring blankly at the table as your high mounts.

“But let me fucking clear. You answer to me from now on. You don’t fuck anyone unless I say so. You don’t let anyone feed from you unless I say so.”

Yoongi’s slender fingers press experimentally against your cunt, swirling with his tongue, and you almost seize when he finally slides one, another, into your heat, fucking with all the same desperation as he licks and sucks.

Hoseok releases the hand not around his cock and it flies to Yoongi’s hair, curling around the strands. The garbled oath he utters when you tug lightly encourages another gush of arousal from you, which he diligently suckles up. You feel fingers on your chin again, forcing your head up, and finally you’re made to look Namjoon in the face. He hasn’t moved, and you can’t see his mouth, but his eyes are bottomless, hungry.

“You don’t cum until he says so, either, pretty girl,” Hoseok coos, flexing his hand around your chin. “Get it?”

There’s no way you can hold it off, you’re already climbing, but the subtle threat in Namjoon’s gaze has you trying to pull back, trying to deny the rush crawling up through your toes, your legs.

“P-please,” you plead, finally, hushed.

“Tell me what you are. Are you brainwashed?” He returns affably.

Yoongi is attacking your clit like a man possessed, sucking, rolling with his tongue, scissoring his fingers, Hoseok still panting and murmuring expletives through his teeth. You shiver, but shake your head.

“N-no.”

“No what?”

“No s-sir?” you try again, desperate.

“Better. What are you, baby? Tell me.”

Your eyes are threatening to roll back in your head. “A, a slut, sir,” you stammer.

“Good. Good girl.” He nods, once, satisfied. “Yoongi.”

The head between your legs disengages from your core with a soggy sounding ‘pop’ and a gasp of air.

“Fuck,” he snarls, hoarse, steadying himself with sticky fingers on your thighs, “Thank fucking god.”

“You’ll want to gag her.”

Hoseok obediently slips his hand from your chin to cover your mouth just before pain suddenly explodes from the inside of your thigh, followed by a pleasure so intense, so deep, your back arches violently, chest heaving, legs snapping shut and trapping Yoongi’s head between them. He begins to suck and though your screech is thankfully muffled mostly by Hoseok’s palm, it’s still so incredibly loud, rushing through your ears, as your orgasm finally, finally¸ washes over you, setting every limb aflame. Your vision goes white, hips gyrating, still clutching at Hoseok’s dick even as his swearing cuts off into grunts and you feel him fumbling on the table for something.

Yoongi feeds from you fervently, grunting and humming and whining through his nose, and you can almost feel him swallowing; every time another mouthful of your blood is pulled from your veins, your pleasure spikes, keeping you high, keeping your limbs filled with cotton, your eyes filled with stars.

“Yoongi.”

Namjoon repeats himself when his first call is ignored. “Yoongi. Stop.”

He disconnects from you after a beat, teeth retracting with a slick noise. He laves his tongue over the wound, panting headily.

“Five more fucking minutes,” he murmurs into your skin, distraught. “Five more minutes, fuck, it isn’t enough.” “I know it isn’t. But she’ll be with us long enough to recover, won’t she?”

The afterglow, the shame, sinks in slowly. Yoongi is still kissing and licking, hand fondling your thigh absently. Hoseok removes your limp wrist from his lap, folding a soiled napkin and crumpling it in his fist before tucking his softened cock back into his trousers.

He crows playfully. “I hope so,” he replies, grinning. “She’s a lot of fun.”

“Won’t she?” Namjoon repeats. You’re trying to catch your breath back, subdue the sparks that still jitter through your limbs, make sense of what just happened, what you just agreed to.

“Y-yeah,” you manage finally, hushed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Your headache is gone.

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#bts vampire au #bts smut #bts x reader #bts fanfic #reader x yoongi #reader x namjoon #reader x hoseok #moth to flame #SORRY ITS LATE I LOVE U GUYS LMAO #its way longer than i thought it would be #:P #I will update links! LATER!

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